
























"c* 0- ^ 'V' ■$>■ *> 

> it -i X y 


it a 



Si : ^ ■ ‘ 


v>^ ^ 

^ o' 



V 

r^ 

IN 




. . 

' ^ ’-Cp 

r?^ ^ 

yy^ ^ 




.V 'cK. , 




C^ 

\ > 

^ O C ^ ^a 

<i " 

/- ^ 






e,, ^,,,«' v'^ 

A ^ ’ ” /■ C‘ V’ 


,A^^' - '^!i 


' 0 ^ '\ 

^ '' “^Vv 






<^0'. '.> 


H 


V ' 


V - \1 * ry^ y ^->3^ <r 

, ^ \V^ 'S^ H . „ > , 


V‘ '’ / c 







, > 

/ % ^ 

' 7. 

y 

•/ 

w ^ 



^ \ 



".^'llv* A' 

tV C> -i. 

IP 0«X \' 

^ ^ .V r 0 

^ ^ Vi'^ _r- 

=» ^ 

. 0 ' r ' * " / 

=> cV %> 


0 <1 (. '** . ' \ 



\ I H 


.owe 



e ®"* '"« ^h 
A' ^ c?5- vAn'^ ^ 

> ? ■'. o'* 


I 

I ' CL ^ -fr p ^ C ^ 

^ » Jfr^i^\ ■#-. • o'T .^J','^6?/!,"'' 

o 



'iO o 

^ 0 

^ .0 

v ^ V ^ ^ 




• -^^/'XVXX- - 



0 .^ 

-*> X ’ 

V X ' 

c S .ti 


r) 


n V. 






















4 


MABEL STANHOPE 


1 


$ 


\ 


r 


V 





t • 




\ 


i % 




4 


I 





PA r 

^ ^ 


> 


• ;• 


> "\- 


' . ( 

: ' L u 1- 

li 

. . ‘a'*> 

? > , ■■' 


«'-• 

*r# " 

± • 

‘•4 







. ^ 






• I 

( 


ft. 


^ T I ^ 
• .» 


I.v 


;'■’: ■ - .':i'\ , ,;. -ij, ' V. ' ' -V^ . '" ■ ^ ' r- 

V' .''^rti’/r ■ V .} ’ ;' ■■’ 

L < . -. \' ^ •. . • • ^ 


I 

c 


,‘f ,I‘ *-'’•*•,• 


*,'}r->' 

. »• 


. / ♦ -' • 


« ( 


- 


. / 




•• J 


J‘l^. ‘ ■ fjt- 1 ' 

•■ ‘■' "'X.' 'vV • 

/■ ^ iiy. :. ' 

• .-V'V'V V^ .!;»; ’ Ay ■'■ 


V . 



:*:■) 


« 


■- 'f j 


•Vv‘ 


. n A - A / 

<■ : ' **,' « ,■ 


4 

V * / 



*;> 


■’ T. X ■>-’ ■V ■ i- L '■ m: ^ 

\.. ■ ■■ ' ■■ ■’:;■■ .V-r^ -',■ _ 



s!' ■ / ,r: v';.-‘ ■ 


^ V 


- V - >y '- - 

• / • * : 4 X .> 





<•. 


^** * 
" * < *' 


SV«^'!, .,v^ 

■ •■* ' ■> . f'' ' ■ J** ^ '•/ ■ ' 


r-" .V 


»> > 




\ 


. . • 


> ■ ' ■•- 
. r# 

•>> 

.1 ' : V' 

'1 

■J ■ 
* 1 ► 

.I-' ' 

' y ^ • 



t 4 

kj 




^ * V , - • * 





V * vi. !> ; J 7 «^ . 

? r ' \ ■f-- ^ 


MABEL STANHOPE 


* 


a ^torv 


BY 


AUTHOR OF 


KATHLEEN O’MEARA 

n 

MADAME MOHL,” ^‘FREDERIC OZANAM,’’ A SALON IN 
THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPIRE 


3 ^ ■ 







/ 




MN 15 1887 

IL 3 ^ ^ A 

washing'^ 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS BROTHERS 

3 Somerset Street 




/ 


Copyright, 1886, 

By Roberts Brothers. 


) 


V 


SSnitjcrgitg ^rejss : 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 

\ 


MABEL STANHOPE 


CHAPTER I. 



T was towards the end of September, a little past 


I JL noon. The proud old chestnuts in the Tuileries 
1 Gardens were gathering rich autumn tints that har- 
monized softly with the fading green. The fountains 
were still plajdng, rippling, and gurgling, and splash- 
; ing their silver spra}" up into the sunlight. 

A travelling carriage, which had excited the ad- 
miration and curiosity of the strollers in the Champs 
Elysees, drew up before the gateway of a large square 
, building on the sunny side of the broad promenade. 

' “ Here we are ! ’’ exclaimed the footman, and jump- 

ing from his seat he summoned the porter with such a 
, sonorous clang at the bell as only an English flunk3^ 
! can give. 

; The carriage step was lowered, and a gentleman 
I alighted, and assisted his companions to descend. 

I first was a lad}" of apparently forty years of age, 

fair and dignified, with the slow, nonchalant step that 
generall}'’ betokens indolence or delicate health. The 
second was a 3^oung girl, whom her father rather lifted 
than handed from the carriage. The three walked in 
through the court3"ard to the front door, where the 
female Cerberus was waiting to receive them. 

The gentleman handed his card to the woman, who 
with a variet}" of dips and smiles showed the travellers 
into the parloir. 


6 


MABEL STANHOPE. 



‘‘ Donnez-vous la peine, Mesdames,” she said; and 
placing chairs for the ladies, she tripped out of the 
room. 

When the door closed, the 3’oung girl drew her chair 
closer to her mother’s. 

“ Dear mamma, I feel so frightened,” she whispered. 

“ You silly child,” returned her mother, who seemed' 
quite as agitated as her daughter; “what is there to 
be frightened at? Madame St. Simon is no doubt as 
kind as your good Mademoiselle Rosalie, whom 3'ou 
loved so much, and who took such care of j^ou for the 
last four 3^ears.” 

“ Oh, but then I was at home, mamma.” 

Sir John Stanhope busied himself examining the 
drawings on the walls of the reception-room. The^" 
were signed by pupils of the establishment, and sup- 
posed b}^ uninitiated visitors to be the bona-fide produc- 
tions of the young ladies. 

“ My dear Mabel,” observed Sir John, “ I hope 3"ou 
nia^^ on leaving this distinguished institution, be able 
to show something as creditable to yourself and 3"Our 
teachers as some of the specimens before us.” 

“ I hope so, dear papa,” replied his daughter, with a 
nervous glance at the opening door. It was the parlor- 
maid, to sa3' that “ Madame priait ces dames de passer 
chez elle.” 

Sir John looked undecided ; he felt inclined to ex- 
press his private opinion on the coolness of the French 
school-dame, summoning his wife to an audience, some- 
what after the fashion in which he admitted one of his 
tenants to the same honor. 

Lady Stanhope guessed what was passing in her hus- 
band’s mind, and to prevent any awkwardness she rose 
and followed the servant across the vestibule. 

To Sir John this forced march looked like a compro- 
mise of dignity ; but before he had arrived at an3’ satis- 
factory decision as to the manner of protesting against 
it the door was thrown open, and the three travellers 
were in presence of the maitresse de pension. 

If they expected (as one of the party decidedly did) 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


7 


to see in that lady an overdressed, beribboned person- 
age, they were thoroughly disappointed. Madame St. 
Simon was tall and slight ; her hair, of a brilliant black, 
was drawn classically back in plain bands, its large rolls 
fastened b3^ a plain shell comb. 

I do not think anj^ one would say she was handsome, 
but she was what the French call une belle femme. Her 
face, in repose, looked hard and cold ; but she had a 
bright smile that lighted the sallow features, though it 
never warmed them, — one of those smiles that come and 
go, leaving no trace behind them, fading awa\* suddenly, 
like da^dight sinking at once into darkness without the 
intervening shadows of twilight. She had a long white 
hand, that gave her an air of high breeding, and a small, 
narrow foot, that fell noiselessl}- on the polished floors 
and stone passages of Belle-Vue. Her dress of rich 
black silk was of irreproachable taste, and perfect!}' sim- 
ple ; a handsome cameo fastening a small linen collar 
was the only ornament she wore. 

Lad}" Stanhope was pleased, and Sir John surprised 
out of his prearranged protest. The lady, who was 
seated half-reclining on a low green velvet couch, rose, 
and presenting her hand to Lady Stanhope, drew her 
gracefully to her side upon the couch, and motioned Sir 
John and Mabel to be seated. 

“ Chere Milady,” she began, addressing Lady Stan- 
hope, “ I was deeply touched by your letter and the 
confidence you place in me. Nothing claims my grati- 
tude so much as the trust of English parents who con- 
fide their children to me at such a distance. And, 
believe me, it is not misplaced. I -cover them with my 
eyes — with my heart,” protested the Frenchwoman, 
with an earnestness that brought the tears to Lady 
Stanhope’s eyes, while Madame St. Simon seemed with 
difficulty to repress her own. 

Sir John thought the sentimental effusion rather pre- 
mature ; besides, he had a national horror of a scene, and 
if this continued, such a catastrophe was inevitable. 

He cut it short by asking to see a prospectus of the 
school. 


8 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


‘ ‘ I wish my daughter to have a separate room, and 
eveiy comfort and advantage that 3’our establishment 
can afford, Madame,” he observed. 

“Certainly, Milord,” replied Madame St. Simon; 
“ Mademoiselle must have one of our prett}^ rooms 
looking on the avenue. She shall go out for a walk 
eveiy day with the English governess. Milady is a 
Protestant? ” turning to Lad}’ Stanhope. 

“Yes; and in placing my child under your care,” 
her ladyship replied, “I must have the assurance that 
she shall have every facility for religious instruction. 
You have, I presume, an English clergyman attached 
to the establishment? ” 

“ Oh, bien entendu, Milady ! Ces cheres enfants are 
provided with every moral and religious advantage.” 

“We should like to visit the institution, if it be 
not giving you too much trouble,” observed Lady Stan- 
hope, after some further inquiries concerning the rules 
of the house. 

“With much pleasure, and fdrgive me,” added Ma- 
dame St. Simon modestly, “ if I say, with much pride. 
This chere maison has been to me all that husband and 
children are to other w’omen. I have spent the best 
years of my life in bringing it to the point at which you 
now see it. I may have acted unwisely for my own 
happiness, in sacrificing the joys of domestic life to the 
realization of my Utopian dreams about education ; but 
the dream was a noble one, and there was a great work 
to be done.” 

“ A most noble work, if properly understood,” re- 
joined Sir John, whose prejudice was beginning to thaw 
under the influence of Madame St. Simon’s quiet, earnest 
manner. 

The house was admirably adapted to its present pur- 
pose, although originally used as a private residence. 
It formed a quadrangle ; the inner courtyard was laid 
out as a flower-garden ; two sides of the building were 
devoted to the classes and refectory ; on the third were 
the salles des professeurs ; the south was reserved for 
Madame St. Simon’s private apartments and the recep- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


9 


tion-rooms. Madame St. Simon entered one of the 
classes, where her presence was acknowledged bj* a 
deferential rising of the young ladies, who stared more 
eagerly than politely at the English girl who was about 
to become their companion. 

“ This is to be your study-room, ma petite,” said the 
ladj^, turning to Mabel. “ Mes enfants,” addressing 
her pupils, “ je vous presente une amie de plus.” 

The announcement was followed bj" a murmur and a 
courtesy. 

Nothing could be more satisfactory to the most ex- 
acting visitor than the order of the whole establishment. 
The cleanliness was perfect, and the appointments in 
the different salles were complete without any attempt 
at displa3^ 

The gymnastic hall attracted Sir John’s special ad- 
miration, which he expressed warmly to Madame St. 
Simon. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I have taken 'great pains to fit it 
up thoroughly, for I believe gymnastic exercises to be 
one of the best things for developing the health and 
strength of .young people. Some parents have accused 
me of paying too much attention to the physical develop- 
ment of m}" pupils, and so taking awaj’ time from their 
studies ; but my instinct is against them there. The 
time given to exercise and the cultivation of health is 
never time lost. A neglected education ma}" be re- 
paired ; but a ruined constitution never can.” 

They had finished the tour of the house, including the 
long dormitory upstairs, with its fifty little iron beds in 
two prim rows on either side, the length of the room 
broken only by a large iron stove running its black 
chimney up into the ceiling. 

Both Sir John and his wife were charmed with the 
inspection, and they took leave of Madame St. Simon 
with the warmest expressions of approval. Sir John say- 
ing as he held her white hand, “ Madame, I wish 1 had 
six daughters to leave you instead of one.” 

It had required no small amount of entreaty and per- 
suasion to induce Sir John to place his daughter in a 


10 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


French boarding-school. To boarding-schools in gen- i 
eral he bore a decided ill-will, to French ones in par- 
ticular. But Mabel could coax her father into an3’thing | 
she set her heart on having or doing. The only jo^’’ i 
that her 3’oung life missed was the companionship of \ 
a sister or a brother ; and the idea of going to school, i 
where she would live in pleasant harmon3^ with numbers | 
of girls of her own age, had a wonderful attraction for ; 
her. She had hinted it more than once to her father, 
but the suggestion had been snubbed b3’ a peremptory 
‘"Tut, tut, child; 3’ou know nothing about it. They 
would starve 3’ou to death ; and what should I do then 
for m3^ pretty Mab ? ” 

Circumstances, however, came to Mabel’s assistance, 
though not in the wa3^ she w'ould have chosen. 

Lad3" Stanhope’s health had suffered so severel3’ from 
the previous winter in England that her husband was 
advised b3^ the ph3'sicians to take her for a wEole 3’ear 
to Madeira. 

Now, Madeira was not at all a desirable residence for 
her daughter, either in its climate or otherwise. There 
were few, if an3% educational resources to be had there. 
True, the3' could take a governess with them, but Mabel 
required something more now ; she had arrived at a 
point when superior masters w^ere necessary to complete 
the governess’s work. So after much hesitation and 
discussion, and minute inquiries as to the best schools 
in London and Paris, it was decided that during her 
parents’ sojourn abroad she should remain at Belle- 
Vue, under the maternal tutelage of Madame St. 
Simon. 

Not till she found herself alone next da3^ in Belle- 
Vue, her cheeks still wet with her mother’s tears, did 
Mabel realize at what a price she had bought the grant 
of her long-urged request. It had all been pleasure and 
sunshine in the distance, but now that she held it in 
possession, the bitterness of parting with her parents 
gave it a sadly different aspect. It was the first time 
she had ever been separated from her mother, and the 
long succession of da3 s and months that must intervene 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


11 


before the}^ -were reunited, stretched out before her in 
interminable length. She upbraided herself for hav- 
ing allowed her longing for the meny companionship of 
school life to tempt her to such a sacrifice. Though 
Mabel was nearh’ sixteen, she was much more of a 
child than most 3’oung ladies of that mature age believe 
compatible with sense and dignit3\ That she was de- 
ficient in neither, w^e hope to prove in due time. For 
the present we are forced to confess that Miss Stanhope 
was guilty of the undignified proceeding of sobbing her- 
self to sleep on the little white-curtained bed, which was 
to be hers for the next eighteen months. 

About an hour elapsed, when she was aroused b^^ the 
ringing of a bell, and the touch of a hand laid, not 
roughly but sharply, on her shoulder. 

‘‘What’s that?” cried Mabel, starting up'. “Who 
are you ? ” 

“The dressing bell, and Milly Jackson.” The an- 
sw^er was more concise than clear. ‘ ‘ The bell is to 
notify that it is time to dress for dinner,” explained the 
intruder, “ and my name is Milfy Jackson.” 

“ Oh, thank .you,” said Mabel, rising hurriedfy. “ Am 
I to put on a low dress ? ” 

“ Bless you, no ; that would be larks ! ” replied Milfy 
Jackson. “Let’s see what sort of a dress 3^011 have 
on.” She bustled about for a match, found one on the 
chimney-piece, lit the candle, and then held it close to 
Mabel’s dress ; it was a dark-green silk, quite new, and 
veiy prettify made. 

“Will it do for dinner?” asked the new-comer, 
hesitatingfy. 

“ I should think so ! ” exclaimed her companion, with 
three notes of admiration in her tone ; “ wly', it ’s a love 
of a dress.” 

Milfy turned her scrutiny from the dress to the wear- 
er’s face. It was still flushed from crying, but looked 
very beautiful. The hazel e3^es, under the long lashes, 
had a w’orld of Are and tenderness in their depths, and 
the fair hair that had fallen from the comb, all wa\y 
and shining, was like a veil of gold thrown round the 


12 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


small, well-set head. Milh^ noticed the red lids and the 
choked sob, that showed the tears were ready to start 
up again at a moment’s notice ; she poured out some 
water into the diminutive cuvette that represented a 
basin, on the washing-table. 

“ Come and bathe your e^^es, like a dear, and try 
and don’t fret. You won’t when 3'ou get used to it. 
Were 3^ou never at school before?” she asked good- 
naturedl^'. 

“No, never,” said Mabel ; “ do you like being here ? ” 

“Oh 3'es, very much, it’s a jolly kind of school, at 
least for the parlor-boarders.” 

“ Am I a parlor-boarder? ” 

“Yes, if 3^011 have a room to 3’ourself, and dine with 
Madame St. Simon.” 

“ I know I have a room to m3^self,” said Mabel, “ but 
I don’t remenaber if papa said anything about where I 
was to dine.” 

“ Then if he did n’t, 3*011 will have to dine in the re- 
fectoiy, and the Fates have merc3* on 3*ou ! ” 

“What is there so dreadful in the refectoiy?” in- 
quired Mabel, startled at this lugubrious invocation. 

“ Wh3*, 3*ou will be starved, that’s all; but unless 
3*our father ’s a fool he is sure to have thought about 
that. It ’s the first thing m3' father thought of when he 
put me here.” 

“ M3^ father is not a fool,” replied Mabel testily, 
“ and he never forgets anything that can make me 
happy.” 

“Oh dear! don’t be huffed,” said Mill3*, laughing; 
“ 3'ou ’ll never get on here if 3*011 are the least thin- 
skinned. I only meant to tell you, you were veiy lucky 
if 3*011 escape the refector3’ ; and if 3*our father did n’t 
understand the difference, why, 3^ou can write and tell 
about it, and he ’ll make it all square with Juno.” 

“Who is Juno?” inquired Mabel, more and more be- 
wildered at her new friend’s peculiar manner of express- 
ing herself. 

“We call Madame St. Simon Juno, she’s so high 
and might3'; but 3*ou will learn all that soon enough,” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


13 


continued Miss Jackson, while Mabel drew the brush 
through her long hair. 

“ What a jolly lot of hair you have ! Such a sweet 
color too ! I wish mine were like it. You have not 
told me 3’our name.” 

“ Because you did not ask me. M^^ name is Mabel 
Stanhope.” 

“Mabel! what a funny name ! Don’t the}^ call you 
something else at home for shortness ? ” 

“Papa calls me Queen Mab,” replied Mabel smiling. 

“ Mab ! that will do ; we ’ll leave out the ‘ Queen.’ 
Oh, there ’s the dinner-bell, and I forgot to change mjr 
sleeves.” 

“ You won’t leave me to go down b}^ m3’self,” pleaded 
Mabel timidly; “ I don’t know the wa3^ and I shall be 
so awkward going in without any one ; that is, if I am 
to dine with 3’ou.” 

“ I hope 3^ou are ! ” said Milly. 

There is an instinct that makes us 3'earn to those who 
look to us for help. Milly was unused to be appealed 
to by her school friends in any emergenc3", unless it 
happened to be some wild frolic that she w^as always 
read3" to be foremost in. No one ever thought of going 
to her for advice in anything serious, yet for all that 
she was looked up to as a leader in the school, and was 
a general favorite. Kind-hearted and careless of blame, 
alwa3^s readv to help another out of a scrape b3^ getting 
into it herself, the great business of her life w^as to go 
through the day with as little trouble and as much fun 
as possible. She never studied at the stud3-hours, but 
gave herself endless trouble in tr3ing to kill the time 
b3" making faces behind her books, and thereby setting 
her opposite neighbors into “fits” as the school term 
goes ; 3^et somehow when the examination-day' came 
round, Milly generally managed to get off with a good 
place. She had been two y'ears at Madame St. Simon’s, 
w'hen she introduced herself to Mabel Stanhope, and 
she was to remain there one y^ear longer. 

Perhaps this rollicking girl was the last person Mabel 
would have chosen as her chaperon, if she had had a 


14 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


choice, but she had not. The want of refinement and 
good breeding displa3'ed in Millj^’s free and eas}’ man- 
ner might have repulsed her at first ; but her bright, 
sunny face, and good-natured cheerfulness atoned for 
any short-comings that grated on the sensitive, refined 
nature of \iqv protegee. 

On their way along the corridor, the}' met some of 
the parlor-boarders hurrying down in answer to the 
dinner-bell. 

“Let me introduce 5^ou,” said Milly ; “Miss Wil- 
son, Miss Wood, Miss Stanhope.” 

“ A parlor-boarder, I suppose?” asked Miss Wood. 

“ I believe so,” returned Mabel. “ Perhaps I ought 
not to go with 3^011 till I am certain,” she added, looking 
to Mill3^ for counsel. 

“Oh, come along; if 3’ou’re not in the right box, 
Juno will soon let 3’ou know it, and hand 3’ou over to 
the Philistines.” 

This was not veiy encouraging to the timid new- 
comer ; however she had nothing for it but to go on, 
and take her chance for being admitted, or turned off to 
the refectory. 

The staircase at the end of the above-named corridor 
opened into the cloisters, where a group of 3'oung ladies 
were collected at the lower end, near the first-class 
school-room. The3^ were not near enough for Mabel to 
see their faces, but b3^ way of compensation she had 
eveiy facilit3’ for hearing their voices, — not silvery ones 
at an3' time, and less so now than ever, being raised in 
angry altercation. Five or six talked, or rather, shrieked 
together, gesticulating violently ; one in particular, who, 
judging from her animated part in the discussion, seemecl 
the principal character in the fra3', shook her closed 
hand in the face of a small, wiiy person, of whom she 
might have easil3^ had the advantage in single combat ; 
but that alternative was prevented by one of her com- 
panions holding her back, while another planted herself 
between the belligerents. 

“What has happened ?” inquired Mabel, glancing 
with amazement and curiosity at the uois3' scene. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


15 


“ It ’s probably some quarrel of no consequence ; the 
French make such a fuss about nothing. We have grown 
used to it, and so will you in time, Miss Stanhope,” ob- 
served the young lady introduced as Miss Wilson ; she 
smiled and strolled on towards the dining-room. 

Two other parlor-boarders followed her, leaving Ma- 
bel still looking on with Milly at the sight. 

“I’d like to see the fun out,” remarked Miss Jack- 
son cooll3\ 

“ Is that what 3^11 call fun? ” inquired her companion, 
with a look of such genuine astonishment that Mill}^ 
could not refrain from laughing. 

“ Well, I dare saj' it is rather disreputable, but it’s 
great fun to hear those French girls pitching into each 
other ; they go at it with such a zest.” 

“ Vous mentez ! ” shrieked the small combatant at 
her tall antagonist. 

“ Menteuse vous-meme ! ” was the brisk retort. 

“ Good gracious ! ” cried Mabel, “ the}" will do some- 
thing dreadful before the}’ stop ! Had you not better 
interfere ? ” she asked. 

“ By reading the riot act? Yes, and get abused for 
my pains, — the usual reward for such attempts at peace- 
making,” replied Miss Jackson philosophically; “but 
don’t be alarmed. Those little compliments are given 
and taken in the kindest spirit, and their edge is blunted 
by use. A French girl thinks no more of calling, or - 
being called, a liar than we should of voting one an- 
other a bore. But if we. stay watching them much 
longer we shall have Juno down on us, for being behind 
time.” 

It was the first Saturday of the month, and Monsieur 
I’Abbe, chaplain of Belle-Vue, usually dined there, after 
hearing some of the pupils’ confessions, and giving an 
hour’s instruction on the Catechism. He was an old 
man, and looked much older than he was ; a venerable 
face was that of the white-haired priest. The forehead 
was lofty and care-worn, and the mouth in repose looked 
rigid, till the smile came like a sweet surprise to dispel 
the first impression, when the cold severity of the out- 


16 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


line melted away, and in its place beamed out the very 
sunshine of benevolence. 

When dinner was over, Madame St. Simon presented 
Mabel to the Chaplain, whose glance had been fre- 
quently directed to the new-comer opposite to him. 

“ Monsieur TAbbe,” she said, “ try and comfort this 
pauvre petite y you have more talent for such missions 
than I have. Mademoiselle is not a Catholic,” she 
added, by way of a preliminaiy caution. 

“That need not prevent our being good friends, I 
hope,” remarked the Abbe, looking kiiKlly on Mabel. 

“ No, Monsieur,” replied the young girl timidly". 

She felt rather impressionnee., as the French call it, 
in coming thus, for the first time in her life, in contact 
with a Catholic priest ; but the gentle suavitj" of his 
manner soon put her at ease. 

Milly Jackson loitered near the salon door, on the 
watch to seize upon \\qy protegee ; she was rather proud 
of pla3dng chaperon to the pretty “new girl;” and 
resolved not to allow any one else to supplant her. 

Monsieur I’Abbe saw the merr}^ face turned upon 
himself and Mabel, and beckoned her to approach. 

“ Mademoiselle Meely,” he said, “ I am going to 
give this j'oung compatriote into 3'our charge ; see that 
she dances every quadrille to-night, and if 1 don’t find 
her e3'es as bright as your own next time we meet, gare 
a vous / ” and he held up his finger menacingly at Ma- 
demoiselle* “ Meely.” She seemed b3’ no means awe- 
struck, but courtesied and answered pertty, with a 
twinkle in her gra3’ e3^e, — 

“I undertake the task, Monsieur I’Abbe. Madem- 
oiselle shall not shed a tear under my patronage.” 

“ Amusez-vous bien, mes enfants,” said the Aumo- 
nier, and he wished them good-night. 

It was the custom at Belle- Vue for the first class to 
join the parlor-boarders eveiy Saturday in the salon. 

Madame St. Simon was supposed to prepare her pupils 
for the highest positions in society, and one of the 
accomplishments on which she laid particular stress 
was what she termed Vart de recevoir. The Saturda3' 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


17 


soirees were got up for the purpose of initiating the 
3’oung ladies into the art of holding a salon., beside 
which, ill Madame St. Simon’s opinion, all the graver 
duties of life sank into insignificance. 

The parlor-boarders, twelve in number, being all Eng- 
lish, Mabel had as 3’et seen in the salon none of the 
French pupils. They generally made their appearance 
some five minutes after Madame St. Simon had taken 
her seat in t\\Q fauteuil beside the fire, and the English 
girls had distributed themselves through the room. 
There was a rushing noise in the hall, and a buzz of 
voices, then a dead silence, and the door opened. Ma- 
dame St. Simon rose to meet ces demoiselles., as thev" 
advanced in pairs, and with a graceful bow presented 
her hand to each, sa^dng she was charmed to see her. 

The 3'oung ladies answered with some pretty speech 
lield in readiness for the occasion, and courtes3fing with- 
drew, leaving the next couple to go through the same 
►■ceremon3\ Mabel thought it rather theatrical, but very 
gracefully done, as it certainty was ; all French girls 
have an innate sense of elegance, which makes them 
feel at home in ceremonies and presentations, where an 
English girl is generalty as clumsy as a clown. 

As soon as the music began there was a general stir, 
a bustling about, engaging of partners, and interchange 
of compliments. Milty had assumed a certain impor- 
tance as appointed 'chaperone to the “new girl,” and 
resolved to make the most of it. After dancing two 
quadrilles with protegee., she said, — 

“Now I’ll introduce the best girls to 3^011 ; tiy and 
don’t get in with the others, especialty the French ; we 
English never get on with them ; they drag you into no 
end of scrapes, and leave 3^011 to get out of them the best 
wa3^ 3*011 can. Olga,” beckoning to a pretty girl who 
was in conversation with a lad3^ near them, — who, Milty 
informed Mabel in a whisper, was Miss Jones, the English 
governess, — “come and dance with Miss Stanhope: 
Mademoiselle Czerlinska, Miss Stanhope.” Then, in a 
whisper to Mabel, “ She ’s a Pole, a duck of a girl, you ’ll 
like her immensely.” And having done what she con- 

2 


18 


MABEL STANHOPE. 



siderecl her duty, Milty turned away to mix in the crowd, 
and answer some of the eager questions that were put 
to her on every side as to who Mabel was, and whether 
she liad known her at home. 

Olga was about the same age as Mabel, and until now 
had been considered the beauty of the school. She had 
the soft, graceful manners of her countiywomen, and 
those powers of fascination that made Napoleon the 
First say, “ If an angel could come down from heaven, 
a Polish woman could bring him to her feet.” 

Mabel felt more at home with Olga, after five minutes* 
conversation, than she had done with Milly in spite of 
her good-natured patronage ; and before the quadrille 
was finished she had promised Olga to sit next to her in 
class, if she had the good fortune to be put in the same 
division. 

At eight o’clock, tea was brought in, — one of the 
French girls presiding at the table. 

“ Do you take tea?” said Olga to her companion. 

“ Oh, 3'es ; w’e alw’a3’S do in England.” 

‘‘ Then I ’ll bring j^ou a cup ; w^ait here wdiile I fetch 
it.** • 


Mabel sat down as she w’as desired, and began to 
look around her ; she was not maii}^ minutes alone when 
the lad}^ Milly called Miss Jones, came and took Olga’s 
vacant seat beside her. 

“ I see you are English, and I come to bid 3’ou wel- 
come,” she said, holding out her hand to Mabel. 

There was something about Miss Jones that Mabel 
warmed to instantaneously. It w^as not her beauty ; 
she was ugly, decidedly ugly ; her skin was 3'ellow and 
parched, her eyes sunken, and of a nondescript color ; her 
teeth projected uncomfortabh’, and wdien she laughed 
gave a skeleton appearance to her mouth ; but there w^as 
a sweet expression about her face that won Mabel’s 
heart at once. 

They had not been long together wdien Olga returned 
with a cup of wdiite, washy-looking beverage, — three 
huge lumps of sugar sticking up through it, like small 
pyramids. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


19 


Mabel looked very much inclined to langh as she took 
rthe cup from Mademoiselle Czerlinska, but the latter 
^ discreeth’ whispered.: “Take care, Juno is watching 
; ns ; if she sees you laughing at her the^ 3'ou ’ll hear of 
^ it b3" and by.” 

The hint was enough to restore Mabel’s grayit}' ; she 
pretended to sip the tea for a minute, and then put the 
cup on a table beside her to cool. 

The proceedings at the tea-table attracted her atten- 
tion, and caused her no small amount of curiosity and 
amusement. The moment a cup was poured out, half 
' a dozen hands were stretched to snatch it ; this wms sel- 
. dom achieyed without a portion of the tea being spilt. 
The next moye after securing the prize was to make a 
dart at the sugar-bowl, which was general!}" emptied 
before half the company had obtained a cup of the coy- 
eted hot water. The disappointed ones, protesting 
against the greediness of the others, pushed their way 
out of the crowd round the table, jostling and elbowing 
the successful candidates so as to shake the tea out of 
their cups, thereby eliciting sundiy indignant expostula- 
tions, and cries of “ Malhonnete ! ” “ Gourmande ! ” 
“ Que tu es grossiere ! ” 

Mabel’s look of amazement did not escape Olga or 
Miss Jones, who were both watching her with amused 
countenances. 

“ You’re not much edified, I fear,” observed the lat- 
ter; “ but you ’ll be less surprised at this specimen of 
French politeness when you come to know more of 
it.” 

“I could not have imagined anj'thing so barbarous 
among civilized people. Wh}" does Madame St. Simon 
allow it?” inquired Miss Stanhope. 

“Oh, Madame St. Simon does not see it; the tea- 
table is behind her fauteuil, and she is too busy talking 
to the sous-maitresse to mind what is going on,” said 
Miss Jones. 

“ But you have forgotten your tea,” said Olga, turn- 
ing towards the table where Mabel had left her cup. 
The cup had disappeared. Mabel laughed ; she was 


20 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


rather glad to have it disposed of *, but she was at a loss 
to understand what had become of it. 

Olga cast her eyes round the room, and saw a French 
girl at a distance grinning mischievously at the trio in 
the corner ; she immediately suspected her to be the 
thief. 

“I’ll go and tell Madame St. Simon,” she said 
angrih", “ and have that odious Madeleine Renard pun- 
ished for her insolence.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t!” pleaded Mabel, “I feel quite 
grateful to her for saving me the trouble of drinking 
it.” 

“ Well, let it be a lesson to you never to leave any- 
thing of the sort in that girl’s wa}" again, unless you 
want to get rid of it,” said Olga. 

There were a few more dances after tea, and then 
Madame St. Simon gave the signal for the breaking up 
of the part}’. The sortie was pretty much the same as 
the entree ; the young ladies withdrew from the room 
as gracefull}’ as they had entered it. So ended Mabel’s 
first evening at Belle- V ue. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


21 


CHAPTER II. 

T he next day being Sunday, the English girls did 
not go into class, and as they were Protestants, 
Miss Jones took them to morning service. 

The sermon struck Mab^l as being full of practical 
good sense, and the preacher as a simple, earnest man, 
who thought more of doing good to his hearers than of 
gaining their admiration. She wms too inexperienced 
in controversial questions to seize any defect of doctrine 
that it might contain ; but when the young ladies sat 
down to breakfast on their return from Church, a dis- 
cussion arose as to the orthodoxy of the preacher and 
the soundness of his views. Miss Jones breakfasted 
with the parlor-boarders on Sunday in the dining-room. 
Mill}" Jackson was the first to begin. 

“ I wish Mr. Brown joy the next time he sees me in 
liis church ! One might as well go to the Madeleine at 
once, and hear an out and out Romanist sermon, I ’ll 
tell Madame St. Simon I sha’n’t go to church any more, 
unless she can send me somewhere else.” 

“ Really, my dear,” said Miss Jones mildly, “ I don’t 
see what you can find in the Reverend Miv Brown’s 
sermon to object to ; for my part, I think his views 
perfectly sound, and himself a most godly man.” 

‘‘Oh,” retorted Milly, “I was not aw'are that you 
were of his way of thinking. Perhaps you send him an 
occasional present of wax candles ; there was a grand 
display this morning.” 

“ Mesdemoiselles ! ” interposed Madame Laurence, 
the French surinte^idante^ who presided at dejeuner 
w'hen Madame St. Simon was not present, “ I must re- 
quest you to speak French ; politeness ought to prevent 
your speaking a language I cannot understand, and 


22 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


you know what strict orders I have from Madame St. 
Simon on the subject. She questioned me again last 
night as to whether English was spoken at table in her 
absence.” 

“We were discussing something that would not have 
been of the least interest to you, Madame,” explained , 
Milly in French. 

“ I dare say not,” returned Madame Laurence ; “your 
conversation does not generall}^ run on interesting topics ; 
but it is ni}^ dut}' to see that you speak French, and 
3’ours to obey the wishes of your parents.” 

“Certainly, Madame,” said Miss Jones; “I ought 
to apologize in the name of these young ladies for our 
impropriety in speaking English, especiall}- before you. 
We were alluding to the sermon preached this morning 
b}’ our minister.” 

“ Speak in the singular, if you please, Miss Jones,” 
said Mill}' pertl}'. “ Mr. Brown is no minister of mine, 
nor of any true Protestant. I, for one, don’t under- 
stand his new-fangled doctrines, and 1 sha’n’t trouble 
him in a hurry again.” 

“ What do 3'ou think of his preaching, Henrietta? ” 
said Miss Jones. 

“ I, oh ! I beg your pardon ; I was thinking of some- 
thing else. What did you say? ” 

Henrietta Wilson was always starting from a reverie. 

“ Come down out of the clouds, then,” said Milly * 
Jackson, “ and say if Mr. Brown is nqt a most unprin- 
cipled man to call himself a Church-oLEngland min- 
ister, and behave as he did this morning, — lighting tall 
candles, too, on ‘the altar, as he calls it.” 

“I don’t see that it is unprincipled to wear a tight 
coat with silk buttons, or even to burn candles on the 
Communion-table ; in fact, I rather like candles, there 
is something poetic about them ; then he has a delight- 
ful voice, and reads so well,” said Henrietta. 

“ 1 think he is a duck of a preacher,” said Miss 
Wood, who made it a point ahva3’s to agree with the 
last speaker. 

“ Well, J protested Mill}', “and I’ll go with 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


23 


the first class to the Madeleine next Sunday, if Madame 
St. Simon won’t let us go to the Rue St. Honore.” 

“You must tiy and agree among 3’oiirselves,” ob- 
served Madame Laurence, “ for 3’ou cannot expect 
Madame St. Simon to have sittings in eveiy church in 
Paris to suit your different tastes ; besides, there is no 
one to go with you except Miss Jones.” 

“ Tant pis,” replied Milly Jackson, “ I ’ll go to the 
Madeleine ! ” 

“ And so will I, and I,” cried several of the J’oung 
girls, who had taken no part in the conversation, but 
w'ho secreth’ sided with Milh" in her dislike to Mr. 
Brown’s doctrines, or probably to his dress, of which 
they were more capable of judging. 

“ My dears,” protested Miss Jones, in a tone of sur- 
prise and distress, “ j^ou cannot seriousl}" intend doing 
an3’thing so wrong; what would 3’our parents sa3'? 
Think of the risk to your own faith in exposing 3*our- 
selves to the dangerous influence of Catholic preaching, 
and those ceremonies that are so apt to fascinate young 
minds.” , 

“ One does not turn actress for going to the theatre,” 
said Mill3’ ; “ and as for the preaching, it will do us 
good to hear a fine French sermon.” 

“ Yes,” replied Miss Jones, “ if there were no other 
objection, I should be 01113^ too glad to listen every Sun- 
da3" to one of their sermons ; it is the best French lesson 
one could have ; nothing familiarizes one so much with 
the idiom of the language.” 

The bell rang for recreation, the circle broke up, and 
the discussion was laid aside till the contending parties 
met that evening in Milly Jackson’s room. There it was 
decided that eight of the pupils should continue with 
Miss Jones to attend the services of the obnoxious Mr. 
Brown, while the others went with a French governess 
and some five or six grown French girls to the Madeleine, 
or to whatever Catholic church they should select. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


. 24 


CHAPTER III. 


XAMINATION-DAY came round for the second 



time since Mabel’s'Errival at Belle-Vue. It was 


preceded by the bustle that alwa3'S accompanies such 
events, and elicits an amount of fresh, healthy excite- 
ment never known out of school-days. 

Milh^ Jackson with her habitual nonchalance.^ had 
taken things easy, trusting to her stars to come off 
respectabl}' when the da}" came. She was in the first 
class, though how she came there was as great a puzzle 
to herself as to an3’bod\" else. 

“ I was born under a luck}" star,” she used to sa}" ; 
“ 3"ou ’ll see I’ll come off better than people who give 
themseh^es no end of trouble.” 

“ What is the first thing we are to be examined in ? ’ 
inquired Henrietta Wilson, languidl}" turning over the 
leaves of a novel that she had been reading surrepti- 
tiousl}" for the last three days, holding it on her knees, 
while apparentl}" poring over an open school-book on 
her desk. 

“Roman histor}",” replied Mabel vStanhope ; “I 
thought it was to be geograph}", but Monsieur Coram- 
bert does not come to-day ; he is ill, and won’t come till 
next week.” 

“ What a pity ! ” exclaimed Henrietta, “ and I had 
prepared so nicely for him.” 

“What a bore!” cried Milly Jackson, flinging her 
geography into the middle of the room; “I haven’t 
looked at the Roman history ; I am sure to be caught 
this time.” 

“Never fear, Milly,” said Mabel; “come and sit 
next me, and I’ll prompt you. Monsieur Belille never 
asks you much, and you are sure to fall on something 
you know.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


25 


“ Where do we begin?” inquired Mill3r, pouncing on 
her Roman histoiy, and shooting over the leaves with 
her thumb. 

“ At the first Punic war,” said Mabel. 

“Well,” said Milly, "‘you must let me sit at the 
top of the form, and I ’ll go in for the first Punic.” 

There was a general assent ; Milh^ was a universal 
favorite, and all were willing to give her a helping hand 
out of her difficulties. 

“ Don’t count too surely on getting the first question, 
I ad\dse you,” suggested Henrietta Wilson, “you know 
Monsieur Belille likes to take one by surprise ; he often 
begins in the middle of the chapter.” 

“I’m done for if he does that to-day,” said Milly, 
“ but you ’ll see I ’ll come off with flying colors, and 
bring in Regulus at the death.” She flattened out the 
book, gave it a thump in the middle to make it lie 
down, and then began fighting over the first Punic war 
in a low voice, beating her chest now and again with a 
vigor that made one fancy her inemoiy -was hid some- 
where in that direction, and that she was pounding the 
■words into it. 

There was a cessation of all noises, except the mut- 
tering of the lessons that were conned over in low 
whisperings. Present^ the bell rang, and Madame 
Laurence stepped down from her marche-pied^ where 
she had been giving the last touch to the compositions 
that were to be submitted to the Professor. 

A red velvet arm-chair was placed beside the table 
for Madame St. Simon, who never made her appearance 
in class except on such occasions, or when doing the 
honors to her visitors. There was a noise of footsteps 
along the stone passage, and of voices in pleasant 
conversation. 

“ Ouvrez, Mesdemoiselles. C’est Madame ! ” Mad- 
emoiselle Renard, a pretty coquette, with blue eyes and 
a brown skin, who called herself a blonde, obe3’ed the 
summons, and threw open the folding-doors. 

Madame St. Simon, followed by the Professor, en- 
tered bowing and smiling to the young ladies. 


26 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Bon jour, mes cheres enfants. Voiis 
de belles clioses anjourd’hui, n’est-ce pas? 

No one answered, but there was a buzz and a flat- 
ter that satisfied Madame St. Simon her presence had 
caused a proper degree of sensation. 

She swept past the desks wdiere her pupils remained 
standing until she was seated. After a moment’s 
pause, . of which Monsieur Belihe took advantage to ^ 
arrange his copy-books, wdiile the French girls bit their 
lips to coral red, and the English girls threw themselves | 
into as comfortable an attitude as was possible on a ^ 
hard, backless bench, the seance w'as opened. 

“ Mademoiselle Jacqueson,” began Monsieur Belille, | 
bowing to the 3’oung lady he addressed, “ 3’ou will be 
good enough to let us have a succinct resume of the . 
second Punic war.” 

There was a death-like silence. j 

“ Pauvre Meel3^, la voila attrapee ! ” was the general 
reflection through the class. But Mill3’ stood up, cast v 
an encouraging look round the room, as if to re-assure ] 
her friends, cleared her throat, and replied: “Mon- 
sieur, before entering on the second, it might be well ] 
to cast a glance at the first Punic war, of which it w^as < 
a continuation ; this will enable us to understand better ^ 
the character and cause of the second.” Monsieur i 
Belille assented, and Mill3’ began her narrative. 

She had a clear voice, spoke French wfith great : 
fluenc3", and possessed a natural flow of language not j 
w'ithout a certain brillianc3\ She sketched briefl3’ the 
destruction of the Carthaginian fleet b3' the Romans J 
under Duilius, the triumphs of Regulus, so closel3" fol- ; 
lowed b3^ his fall ; she hurried on with animation 'j 
through the histoiy of the noble Roman’s captivity, his : 
mission to Rome, so fruitful in wise counsel to his coun- ■ 
tiy and glor3" to himself, his return to Carthage, where k- 
vengeance and death awaited him, dwelling eloquentl3^ on ; 
the cowardice and cruelt3' of the foes wdio were incapable 
of admiring the heroic self-sacrifice which made the pa- 
triot forget his own safet3^ in the welfare of his countr3\ i 
Milly paused for a moment after the death of Regulus. 1 



MABEL STANHOPE. 


27 


“ Maintenant, Monsieur, passons a la deuxieme 
guerre Punique.” 

“ C’est assez, Mademoiselle, c’est assez,” said Mon- 
sieur Belille, “I see you have thoroughly studied the 
subject.” 

“And delivered it equalty well,” added Madame 
St. Simon approvingly. “ I am glad to be able to 
compliment you in presence of 3’our companions, my 
dear, on your indnstr}' and improvement in narra- 
tion ; I trust it will encourage them to follow your 
example ! ” 

Milly bowed, and resumed her seat, while Mabel 
continued the subject, taking it up from where her 
neighbor had dropped it. With her high notions of 
honor and tnilh, Mabel was shocked at the satisfied 
manner with which Mill}" accepted the praise her con- 
science must have told her she deserved so little. She 
could not bear to think Milly was deceitful, or capable 
of deliberate falsehood ; but was not this falsehood in 
action ? 

It may have been this puzzling question which kept 
her from continuing clearl}" the thread of Milly’s dis- 
course, or it may have been that her natural timidit}^ 
prevented her doing full justice to herself, as had often 
been the case before, especiall}" when Madame St. Simon 
was present ; perhaps both causes combined to unnerve 
her, and prevent her speaking with fiuenc}" or self- 
possession. 

Madame St. Simon had so little intercourse with her 
pupils be3"ond the commonplaces of the dinner-table 
conversation that she had but slight opportunit}" of 
judging of their character and capabilities, or of ap- 
preciating fairl}" an}" apparent shortcoming, such as 
Mabel’s to-da}". 

“I am son’}",” she said, reprovingl}", as the 3"oung 
girl stood trembling and confused under her cold, 
bright e3’e, “I am sorry to find 3’ou so little improved 
since the last examination. I am writing to your dear 
mother to-da}", and hoped to have been able to report 
favorably of your studies from to-day’s trial.” 


28 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Mabel clasped her hands tightl}" together ; she would 
have given eveiy chance of success for the next year to 
have been able to speak, but the only words that w^ould 
come, were a beseeching “ Oh, Madame \” The tears 
were rolling down her cheeks. 

Monsieur Belille knew that Mabel had broken down 
purely from nervousness ; her copies and compositions 
proved more satisfactoril}" than any verbal answ'ers 
could do how conscientiously she studied. He turned 
over some cop3’-books that were piled on the desk 
beside him, and, on coming to Mabel’s, handed it to 
Madame St. Simon, saying : — 

“Madame, if you will look over some of Mademoi- 
selle’s historical comjyositions it will convince 3’ou that 
idleness has not been the cause of her failure in the 
Punic w'ar. It is a sad pit3" she is so nervous, for 
it prevents her doing justice to herself or to her 
teachers.” 

“ For their sakes, Mademoiselle should tiy and con- 
quer it,” replied Madame St. Simon, taking the manu- 
script from him ; “and be assured, m3’ dear,” addressing 
Mabel, “that self-possession is much more charming 
than nervousness ; it never runs the risk of being mis- 
taken for affectation.” 

Madame St. Simon never lost an opportunity of 
saying a cutting thing, when she could do so without 
being suspected of injustice. 

Madame Laurence meantime sat silenth^ listening, 
but not daring to testify either in the case of Mill3’’s 
triumph, or Mabel’s failure. Each was the result of 
accident, of that she felt convinced ; but to dispute 
Madame St. Simon’s sentence in open court, to stand 
up in defence of one pupil and condemnation of an- 
other, when tlie oracle had passed judgment on them, 
that was a deed of heroism which the sous-maitresse 
dared not contemplate. She worked awa3’ at her 
knitting, without daring to look at Mabel ; her nerves 
could not bear the silent reproach of the poor child’s 
tears. They were not flowing from the humiliation of 
» unmerited defeat, — Madame Laurence knew that, for 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


29 


she had watched her anxiously while going through the 
ordeal, and saw the first tear start onl}^ when Madame 
St. Simon held out the threat of complaining to Lady 
Stanhope. Her love for her mother was Mabel’s ruling 
passion, and the possibility of Madame St. Simon writ- 
ing to Lady Stanhope so as to cause her displeasure or 
disappointment, was more galling to the young girl’s 
heart than any punishment that could be inflicted on 
herself. 

Miss Jones was sitting opposite to her, too much 
absorbed in some idioms that she had picked up about 
the house during the morning, to have caught all that 
had been going on before Madame St. Simon’s appear- 
ance in the school-room ; but like every one else, she 
knew that Milly Jackson’s success was just as little the 
result of study as Mabel’s breakdown was of idleness. 

“Why doesn’t Madame Laurence stand up for 
her ? ” was the first idea that suggested itself, on hear- ' 
ing Madame St. Simon’s unjust remarks. She looked 
towards the sous-maitresse., whose e3’es wmre riveted on 
her knitting. Miss Jones gave a loud “ hem.” Mad- 
ame Laurence was impassible. Not so Madame St. 
Simon; she looked up inquiringly from the inspection' 
of the copy-book. Now is the moment, thought Miss 
Jones, feeling as if she were about to make a desperate 
plunge into some invisible gulf. 

“ Madame,” she began in French, with a violent 
English accent, “ Je considere il est de mon devoir 
de protester.” 

“Against what?” demanded Madame St. Simon. 

“Against injustice! Mademoiselle Stanhope is the 
most studious pupil in the school, as Madame Laurence 
can testify,” looking veiy decidedly towards that lad}’, 
who continued pertinaciously buried in her knitting, 
W'hich seemed to have got itself into an inextricable 
tangle. 

“ Je ne veux pas me melanger dans la conscience 
des autres, mais je considere il est mon devoir de 
testifier 1 ” 

There was a suppressed murmur of approbation, 


30 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


while Milly Jackson whispered across the desk, “ Bravo, 
old Jo ! ” Madame St. Simon would have probably 
met the unprecedented interference from any other 
mistress with a haught}' rebuke that would have with- 
ered the offender into thin air ; but an}- such attempt 
would have been thrown awa}’ on Miss Jones. She 
was too single-minded to understand the airs and graces 
of the Frenchwoman, and too stern a worshipper of 
truth to be deterred from doing the right thing by 
an3’ amount of contempt or ridicule it might entail. 
Madame St. Simon knew this, and generally showed 
more indulgence to Miss Jones’s sallies and sorties 
than she would have done to a slight breach of etiquette 
from an3^other inmate of her house. 

She had, besides, been looking through Mabel’s cop3’- 
books, and they were such as to justify completeh’ the 
encomiums of her master and Miss Jones’s testimon3\ 
She w'as not a kind woman, and the natural harshness 
of her nature made her often push severit3’ to the verge 
of tyranny ; but she saw she had been mistaken, and 
was disposed to acknowledge it. 

“Can 3’ou corroborate this testimony in favor of 
Mademoiselle Mabel?” she inquired, turning to Madame 
Laurence. 

“Oh, most willingl3^ and most truly,” replied the 
nervous sous-maitresse., onl3’ too glad to have the 
chance of doing justice to her favorite without incurring 
the deity’s wrath. “I should hai^e borne witness, as 
Miss Jones has done, to her industiy and great abilit3', 
but I was so taken aback b3’ her failure that I had not 
presence of mind to do it at once^ My nerves are 
quite overdone.” 

“Perhaps the weakness is contagions,” observed 
Madame St. Simon, with a smile that looked like a 
sneer. If there w'as one thing Madame St. Simon 
despised above any other it w^as nerves. Madame 
Laurence collapsed. 

“ Ma chere enfant,” said Madame St. Simon to 
Mabel, who had recovered herself during the last few 
minutes, “ I am most thankful to accept the good testi- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


31 


mony of your teachers ; and I trust that for their sakes, 
as well as for your own, you will try to correct that 
most absurd weakness, — nervousness, I think you call 
it?” turning sarcastically to Madame Laurence. “It 
is the worst enemy a rational being can be hampered 
with ; it prevents 3^our faculties from having full pla^^, 
and if not conquered earl}", degenerates into something 
too like imbecilit}" to be easily distinguished from it.” 

Having delivered herself of this piece of advice, 
apparently for Mabel’s special advantage, but in reality 
as a covert blow at poor Madame Laurence, whose 
knitting had now grown quite unmanageable, she 
begged Monsieur Belille to continue the examination, 
expressing a hope that there might be no more inter- 
ruptions of the same nature. 



/ 

'■ J 


32 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER IV. 


MONG the professors at Belle-Vue, was one old 



German, called Herr Carl. He was so old, or 
he looked so old, that many of his pupils believed 
him to have been contemporaiy with Beethoven. At 
all events, he had lived so completel}’ in spirit with the 
grand maitre., as he reverently styled the German 
master, that he had grown almost to believe he had 
known him in reality, and heard from his own lips 
many of the lessons he now imparted to others. 

The oldest pupil in the school remembered to have 
seen Herr Carl alwa3’s in the same hat, a peculiar 
broad-brimmed hat, bearing inside a faded green patch 
with the German maker’s name inscribed in gold 
letters, long since illegible. 

In the midst of his poverty, the music-master pre- 
served a cleanliness which redeemed and dignified it. 
Indeed, he seemed so unconscious of it, so complacentty 
satisfied with his position, that most of the thoughtless 
3’oung things who never looked below the surface, and 
were incapable of understanding what lay hidden there, 
believed the old man to be a miser who had gold hoarded 
up in teapots and old stockings, and who starved and 
froze himself rather than part with one of his bright 
guineas. 

It is so difficult for 3^outh, happ3\ opulent vouth, to 
believe in poverty ! The3" read of it in novels, where 
heroes and heroines pla3^ at sentimental miser3^ ; but 
they acknowledge its presence in real life onty when 
it presents itself in rags, stretching out a famished 
hand for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s 
table. 

Herr Carl had none of these recognized attributes of 
poverty ; he neither begged nor whined, but held his 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


S 3 


head erect with the dignity of independence ; he had 
never borrowed a peniw in his life ; had never done a 
mean or an unjust action. He toiled for his bread hon- 
estly, and, such as it was, he was content with it. 

It was Saturday, tlie day on which he attended at 
Belle-Vue ; the few who had the ill-appreciated privilege 
of being his pupils were assembled in the music-room, 
waiting his arrival. The old man’s punctuality had, 
like his povert}’, passed into a proverb. He gave his 
lesson at four o’clock, and at the first stroke of the 
great horloge in the courtyard, he stood at the door of 
the salle de mxisique., bowing to his pupils, with the 
rusty hat in one hand, and his threadbare brown gloves 
(which, to save time, he always pulled off in the 
corridor) in the other. ^ 

Madame St. Simon, who, like all true disciplinarians, 
W’as as punctual as a postman, valued this trait in Herr 
Carl’s character beyond every other qualitj" he pos- 
sessed, and once paid him the compliment of setting 
her watch by his ring at the gate. 

“ Mesdemoiselles,” he began, bowing first to one 
side and then to the other, “ we are going to read a 
little Bach to-day.” 

‘‘Oh, Monsieur Carl,” exclaimed Olga Czerlinska, 

“ won’t 3 0U let us finish that sonata of Beethoven’s 
that we got half through wdth last time?” 

“ Ha, ha, you want the grand again to-da}’, , 

do 3’ou ? ” rubbing his hands with a malignant grin ; 
“no, no, that won’t do; we must learn to spell before 
we read ; we must leai’n to walk before we run.” 

“ But you promised us to finish the Pathetiqne., and 
I ’m dying to get through it. Monsieur Carl,” returned 
Olga poutinglj". 

“Ha! so your teeth water for it, do the\^? Very 
good ; we ’ll wait a little longer ; it will do them 
no harm. Grimace all that ! ” he muttered to him- 
self, “ much she knows about the beauties of the 
grand maitre ! ” He grumbled this flattering reflection 
to himself in German ; the person he was talking at 
was supposed not to understand his mother-tongue ; 

3 

y 


34 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


not that her doing so would have in the least dis- 
composed the old gentleman. He made it a matter of 
conscience to snub an}’ well-intentioned remark his 
pupils ever ventured to advance on the classics, 
whether it expressed admiration or the reverse ; in his 
eyes, one was as unjustifiably presumptuous as the 
vother ; the only tribute of appreciation he tolerated 
‘was attention, silent *and humble. “We shall finish 
exploring that gold mine one of these days,” he con- 
tinued in French, laying the Pathetique tenderly on 
one side ; “ in the meantime here is a silver one ; let's 
see how much ore we can get out of it.” 

“ 1 don’t care about Bach,” said Olga, turning away 
from the' piano. 

“Neither do I,” whispered Mabel, “but the sooner 
we despatch him, the sooner we shall have Beethoven 
again ; besides, our friend is as headstrong as a Turk, - 
there is no use in arguing with him.” 

“ Vieille perruque !” muttered Madeleine Renard, 
distorting her piquant features into a grimace. 

“He’s an old humbug,” said Milly Jackson, “he 
bores one to death with his classics, and 1 can’t see the 
fun of them.” 

“Nobody expects the classics to be funny,” remarked 
Mabel; “with all your ingenuity I don’t think you’ll 
succeed in getting much fun out of Mozart and 
Handel.” 

“Now, Mab, don’t be logical,” retorted Mill}’; 
“there’s nothing bores one like logic.” 

Herr Carl, during the foregoing conversation had 
been screwing the piano-stool to its proper height ; a 
proceeding not accomplished without some delay, for 
while it was a hair’s breadth above or below regulation 
height, the Professor persevered twisting it up and 
twisting if down till he arrived at the precise elevation 
required. The lesson began, and the old man gave 
himself up to it with an earnestness that would have . 
won an equally earnest response from any but those : 
hare-brained school-gii-ls. * \ 

How often must the best of us look back with regret | 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


85 


and self-reproach to the cruelty which let our teachers 
labor to impart to us some lesson that we struggled 
quite as conscientiously not to take in ! So Herr Carl 
worked away as if the gold medal of Munich were to 
, reward his efforts. He opened out to those flighty 
3’oung spirits the beauties of the masterpiece before 
them ; he disentangled every intricate passage, illus- 
trating on the ke3's each verbal explanation. Some- 
times, when there came a sudden change from darkness 
to light, from sadness to joy, the musician’s eye w’ould 
light up with a strange beautv, as if some unseen lamp 
yvere kindled in his brain, shedding its mellow light 
through the green orbs. Seldom, veiy seldom, did he 
meet with a kindred glance ; when he did it was from 
Mabel Stanhope. Not that she always understood the 
thrill which the music sent through her heart, but she 
felt it, and he saw that she felt it. P'or one such 
response Herr Carl would have waited patientlj' all da3% 
toiling at his ungrateful task. 

To-day’ Mabel was determined to be more than usually 
attentive, for she saw that she was probably the only 
one present disposed to listen to him. It was enough 
that one did listen. Herr Carl bent all his zeal on 
Mabel, determined that, for an hour at least, she should 
enter into his spirit and drink in draughts of harmony 
from his fatherland. 

Olga, too, grew interested in the master’s glowing 
interpretation ; something of his enthusiasm was com- 
municating itself to her ; it was never difficult to excite 
hers when music was in question, and by the time the 
lesson was half over she had forgiven Herr Carl, and 
even acknowledged that Bach had beauties enough to 
console her for the postponement of Beethoven’s sonata. 
The old man had been so absorbed that he had not 
noticed the listless attitudes of the others, some of 
whom had moved aw’ay from the piano to a distant 
part of the room. Their careless answers when he 
had tried to awaken their attention, or elicit a solution 
of some complicated chord, had irritated and soon 
wearied him ; so he left them to their ignorance, and 


36 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


consoled himself by imparting his instructions with 
redoubled zeal to Mabel and Olga. 

The clock struck five. Herr Carl rose as if some 
electric spring witliin him had been touched, and para- 
h’zed his fingers on the instrument. He thanked Miss 
Stanhope and Mademoiselle Czerlinska for the atten- 
tion the^’ had lent him, and walking hastily to the door, 
seized his hat, wliich lay on a table near it. He was 
in the act of raising it for a parting salute, wlien the 
weather-beaten crown came rattling to the ground, with 
the old brown gloves on top of it. 

The master started ; his first idea was that age had 
done its work, and that his trusty head-gear had bent 
under the last half-ounce. He seemed i)erplexed and 
Sony, but there was not one tinge of smarting pride or 
shame upon his countenance. He looked at tlie fallen 
crowm and said playfully : “ Panvre chapeau ! thou hast 
served me well ; I ought to have let thee rest sooner ! ” 

A suppressed titter, follow^ed by wdiat school-girls 
call an explosion, roused him from his meditation on 
the mutilated hat ; he turned abiaiptl}’ towards a group 
of four or five of his French pupils, and met their ej es 
sparkling with mischief and mockery. 

The old man gazed at them (or a moment in silence ; 
then the blood mounted slowly through the parched 
skin, and his eyes had a light in them not goodl3’to see. 
The culprits shrank under his glance ; not even Made- 
leine Renard dared meet it unabashed. The true state 
of the case had struck Herr Carl ; he stooped to pick up 
the gloves, wdien Mabel Stanhope sprang forwmrd in 
time to prevent him, and handed them to him. She felt 
for her companions ‘all the shame they ought to have 
felt for themselves, and longed to saj^ something to 
the old Professor, something that would speak more 
admiration than pity, but the right words w^ould not 
come. Perhaps the silent deference of her manner 
spoke more eloquentl^^ than words could have done, for 
a tear stood in the music-master’s eye as he took the 
gloves from her hand, and looked at the gentle face 
flushed with indignant shame and womanly pity. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


87 


“Merci, inon enfant,” and he bowed a low courtly 
bow to the 3’oiing girl ; “ merci ! ” Then turning towards 
the guilty group near the window, but this time with a 
softened glance, as if the kindness of one had pleaded 
for all : Jeiinesse,” he said, forcing a smile, never 
make a laughing-stock of poor old age ; it brings no 
blessing.” 

The door opened. They cried out, “Pardon, Mon- 
sieur, pardon ! ” but it was too late ; the Professor was 
gone. 

“Who did it?” were the first words uttered bv 
several voices together, when the door had closed 
behind him. 

The four in the window all screamed out at once, 
each throwing it on one of the others as being the 
originator of the deed. 

“It was a shabby trick,” exclaimed Mill}', “ I can’t 
see the fun of it.” 

“ It was a heartless, vulgar joke,” said Olga. 

The ofienders were thoroughl}' ashamed of them- 
selves. 

“ It was Madeleine that proposed it,” exclaimed 
Marie de Ricane ; “I did n’t want to have anything to 
do with it ; I knew we should get into a scrape. Of 
course the old pemiqiie will inform before he goes home 
to-day.” 

“ Vous mentez ! ” retorted Madeleine furiousty ; “it 
was not I suggested it ; it was \’ourself.” 

“ Whoever suggested it,” interposed Mabel Stanhope, 
“ I suspect you executed it, Madeleine ; if I had known 
what use 3’oa intended making of m3' penknife when 
3'ou asked me to lend it to 3'ou befoi'e we left class, I 
should not have given it.” 

“ Merci pour rien ! ” returned Madeleine, flinging the 
penknife across at Mabel ; it must liave hit her full in 
the face had not Olga, with quick presence of mind, 
thrust out her arm between Mabel and the well-aimed 
missile, which struck her hand and then rebounded to the 
floor. Mabel snatched up the penknife and raised her 
hand to dash it back on the assailant, but her wrist was 


38 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


grasped so tightly, that the knife dropped from her 
fingers. The momentary pause was enough to calm 
her excitement. 

“ Thank you, Olga,” she exclaimed impulsively ; “if 
I had struck that girl, I should have despised myself as 
mu^ch as I do her.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


39 


CHAPTER V. 



IHP2 next day, when the English girls went out for 


JL their usual airing, it was agreed among Herr 
CaiTs pupils that tlie^^ should buy him a hat to replace 
the one which had received its death-blow from the 
hand of Madeleine Renard. 

Miss Jones, whose kind heart was deeply touched at 
Mabel Stanhope’s account of Madeleine’s misdemeanor, 
readily acquiesced in her desire to atone for it ; and 
accordingly they went down the Boulevards to the 
grand hatter’s whose, window gloried in the imperial 
arms surrounded the talismanic words : Fournisseur 
de sa Majeste VEmpereur. 

“We are sure to get a good one here,” said Milly 
Jackson, “the old fogy will be coiffe for the rest of 
his days.” 

“ If you could drop that vulgar habit of talking 
slang, my dear,” reproved Miss Jones, “ and that rude 
way of qualifying everybody as old ; Herr Carl is no 
more than a middle-aged gentleman.” 

“Who’s going to be spokesman?” asked Milly, 
turning a deaf ear to the governess’s reproof. “Miss 
Jones, we will leave you to walk into that ineffable 
dandy behind the counter. Just look at his mus- 
tache ! Should n’t I like to give it a tug ! I suppose 
he thinks he ’s going to stick the spikes of it into our 
little ’arts.” 

“ If 3*011 can’t cease those ridiculous remarks so 
much against good taste and good sense, you must 
come awa}’.” 

Miss Jones stood bolt upright in the middle of the 
shop, while she addressed this warning to her pupil. 
“I won’t budge,” promised Milly, patting on a mock- 


40 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


modest air, absurdly at variance with the natural 
expression of her face. 

“ Qu’aurai-je ri)onneur de faire voir a ces dames?” 
inquired the shopman. 

“ Un chapeau pour un geiitilhomme de niojeu-age,” 
replied Miss Jones. 

' “ Le mari de Madame,” put in Mill}^ in a voice so 

low that it escaped the ear of the unconscious spinster. 

The man turned aside to look for some suitable ar- 
ticle, or perhaps to hide a smile, which in spite of his 
politeness, crept over his lace. 

Among all the amiable qualities of the French, and 
they are numerous, peiiiups there is not one that should 
excite the admiration of foreigners more than their solid 
powers of endurance under the most trying jjro vocation 
of their risibility. 

The polite individual whose nerves were about to 
undergo no ordinary shock from the fire of Miss Jones’s 
vocabulary, proceeded wdth edilying sang-froid to pro- 
duce a number of hats for her inspection. 

There was an inexhaustible supply to choose from, 
of the most elegant and fashionable shapes. The one 
most in favor with the Parisian beaux, the shopman in- 
formed his customers, was the narrow brim cut off close 
to the head. 

“ That’s just the thing,” suggested Milh^ Jackson, as 
she took it up for inspection, “ it will be such fun to 
see it crowning old Carl’s brown regimentals.” 

“Oh, anything but that!” pleaded Mabel, appalled 
at the idea of seeing the poor old Professor with the 
dandified head-gear shining over his rust3’ suit, “ he 
w^onld be perfectly ridiculous, Milly.” 

“ You are quite right, my dear,” said Miss Jones, 
“ no one but that silly girl could suggest such a choice ; 
but reall}’ it is puzzling to know what to take. I 
fear the plainest will look out of keeping on the old 
gentleman.” 

She leaned her elbow on the counter, nodding her 
grizzly curls at the array of hats displayed on it. Sud- 
denly a bright idea seemed to strike her ; she muttered 


'MABEL STANHOPE. 


41 


something to herself, and turning to Mabel whispered : 
“ How do you say ‘ crush" in French?’" 

“ Ecraser ’" replied Mabel. 

“Avez-vous des chapeaux ecrases, Monsieur?” she 
inquired of the man. 

“Non madame, vous ne trouverez pas des articles 
d’occasion dans une maison comme la nOtre,” replied 
the man stiffl}’. 

“ C’est etonnant ! ” was Miss Jones serene rejoinder. 
She suspected the man did not undeystand her, but did 
not like to owni it. 

“ Come here, Mabel ; don’t go away, m3’ dear, I want 
you to help me. What is the French for ‘ spring’?” 

“ S’elancer, sauter,” replied Mabel, surprised, and a 
little nervous. What was coming? 

“Monsieur,” continued Miss Jones, “ je voudrais un 
chapeau qui s’elance, qui saute.” 

“ Un chapeau qui saute!” repeated the shopman, 
affrighted out of his risibilit}’. 

“ Oui, s’il vous plait; ” Miss Jones was satisfied she 
had hit on the right thing at last. The man looked at 
her for a moment, utterly’ bewildered. 

“What do 3'ou want to sa}’?” inquired Mabel, in 
English. 

“ M}’ dear, I said what I meant, and I mean what 1 
said,” replied Miss Jones, slighdy atironted. 

“ But, dear Miss Jones, 3’ou can’t possibty mean to 
ask for a jumping hat ! ” expostulated Mabel. 

“ I asked for a spring hat ; \’0u told me that ‘ spring " 
was sauter in French?” 

It was more than Mabel could bear ; she faiiW 
laughed outright, and the mystified shopman, re- 
assured as to the sanity of his customer, joined with 
infinite relief in the merriment. 

Miss Jones deliberated for a moment, whether she 
should rise and walk majesticall}^ out of the .shop, or 
join in the laugh against herself. She decided on the 
more sensible alternative, and when Mabel was suffi- 
ciently sobered to answer her question, quieth’ pro- 
ceeded to explain herself. It had occurred to her that 


42 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


cloth would be much more suitable to Herr Carl than 
the glossy silk of the faslhonable hat. Once the mis- 
take was rectified and the shopman enlightened as to 
the article required, it was soon produced, and agreed 
upon as the most fitting substitute for its venerable 
predecessor. 


• MABEL STANHOPE, 


43 


CHAPTER VI. 

M ISS JONES found the idioms ver}" up-hill work. 

What she complained most of was the difficult}’ 
of “ turning the jphrases ; ” they never seemed to come 
right. 

O ! 

As to her pronunciation, the governess believed con- 
scientiously that it was a faithful echo of the pure Parisian 
accent ; this was a great point gained ; there remained 
only to acquire fluency and correctness by vigorous 
study. 

It was her habit out of class to walk, for an. hour at 
a time, up and down the parlor-boarders’ corridor, re- 
peating over to herself wdiat she had learned during 
the day, or getting by heart a number of idioms picked 
up here and there, and scribbled on a scrap of paper. 
What a lesson it w'as to man}’ an idler close by, the un- 
tiring industry of the worn-out governess I There she 
walked day by day, tramping hard on the carreU floor 
of the passage to warm her feet. Is there any small 
suffering more trying than cold feet? Winter and sum- 
mer Miss Jones was a martyr to them. 

She was one day making her forty-second turn up the 
corridor, when for the first time she perceived a door 
open. It was Henrietta Wilson’s. That young lady 
sang very sweetly to the guitar, and had a weakness 
for leaving the door ajar while she was practising ; 
she thought it looked interesting and romantic. Hear- 
ing the sound of Miss Jones’s military step in the pas- 
sage, she took up the instrument and began drawing 
her fingers across the strings to the words, “ She is far 
from the land.” There was something sweet in the 
sounds, although unskilfully given ; Miss Jones stood 
listening at the half-open door. When she was young 
she had played on the guitar herself. 


44 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


The cessation of the steps just at the threshold caused 
Henrietta to turn her head ; she started as if the fact of 
the door being open had quite surprised her. 

‘‘ 1 hope I have not frightened you, my dear,” said 
Miss Jones, with a simplicity that no affectation could 
disturb. 

“ Oh, not much ! Only I was thinking of something 
else, far away.” 

Henrietta heaved a deep sigh. 

“Thinking of liome? oh, 3"ou need not sigh while 
3’ou have home to think of.” 

There was something in the tone that sounded more 
like a real sigh than Henrietta’s theatrical sob ; she 
looked at Miss Jones, and for the first time noticed how 
haggard lier face was. The yellow teeth protruded 
more painfully than ever, and the wrinkles on her fore- 
head were deeper and harder ; the cold had given .a 
violet tint to her skin that made it look livid. 

Henrietta was kind-hearted. “ Come in, Miss Jones,” 
she said, “ and sit beside the fire if 3-011 want to stud3-.” 

“ Oh, thank 3-011, m3- dear, I shall just warm m3-self 
since you are so kind, but I stud3- very well walking up 
and down the corridor. Is it not very early to begin 
fires? You will not feel the benefit of them when the 
real cold com^s.” 

“ Wh3^ I call this real cold,” said Henrietta ; “ it ’s 
so gloomy and damp, one feels miserable without a fire ! 
How do 3-0U exist without a fire in 3-our room? I 
should rather go without my dinner than without m3" 
fire,” declared Henrietta, and she threw a large log on 
the embers. 

“ One can live without a fire,” replied the governess, 
holding out her hands to the blaze, “ but one must have 
a dinner sometimes.” 

“ Sometimes ! do you mean to say that 3-011 don’t get 
your dinner every day ? ” 

“ Not one that I can eat always ; the refectoiy- food 
is not like what you get at Madame St. Simon’s table ; 
there are some days, Friday- for instance, that I dine off 
bread and eau rougieN 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


45 


“ How wicked of Madame St. Simon to starve 
3’oa in that wav I ” said Henrietta indignandy ; “she 
must have horrid dreams at night ; I am sure I should 
in her place. But wh\' don’t the others complain of 
it?” 

“ French people are more used to that kind of living, 
and can bear it better ; they get through an amount of 
potage., made of onions and grease, that would astonish 
3’our delicate appetite, my dear. I tried at first, from a 
sense of duty, to take it, but my good-will was not proof 
against the sickness it caused, and the consequent weak- 
ness I suffered from for da^’s.” 

“ Why don’t 3^011 ask for tea?” suggested Henrietta. 

Miss Jones smiled. “ I get a cup of tea on Thurs- 
day in the salonP 

It was the first time since they had been under the 
same roof that Henrietta had observed Miss Jones. She 
had seen her da3" after da3’ trudging through her cheer- 
less round of duties, with uncomplaining cheerfulness, and 
had never asked herself if Miss Jones was an3’thing more 
than the mere stiKhing machine she looked, groping her 
way’ through the mazes of French grammar, and pick- 
ing up with the avidity of a miser eveiy stra3’ idiom 
that heedless school-girls dropped from their rattling 
tongues. 

No, Henrietta had never given a thought to this ; and 
now that the wan, worn face before her peered greedily 
into the warm blaze, as a hungiyman inhales the smoke 
of a savory dish, she was startled to see how careworn 
the face was, and what an aged look it wore. There 
was more than moral suffering there ; tliere was plysi- 
cal want. Cold and hunger were written in deep fur- 
rows down the cheeks, and had set their mark round 
the mouth, pointing the chin to a painful sharpness. 
Henrietta was shocked ; she felt as if she had been 
guilty of some personal cruelt3’ towards Miss Jones in 
having been so slow to notice these traces of suffering, 
now so evident to her awakened observation. She 
forgot even the guitar and her sentimental song as 
she watched her visitor looking into the fire, and 


46 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


rubbing her thin hands with a pleasant sense of 
enjoyment. 

‘‘ Dear Miss Jones,” said Henrietta, “ we were talk- 
ing yesterday of getting up a little tea-party turn about 
in oiir rooms of an evening, and we want yon to come 
and join ns in a cup of tea ; you can’t refuse, for 3'our 
lessons are over, and you may as well spend your even- 
ings with ns as by yourself. I am to begin the series 
of entertainments, so 1 shall expect you to-morrow even- 
ing at seven.” 

“Thank 3*011, my dear,” replied the governess ; “if 
there be anything that could tempt me away from m}* 
duty it is a cup of tea. But I must not yield to the 
temptation ; there is no saying what habits of idleness it 
might lead me into if I once gave way.” 

“ But I don’t want to tempt 3*011 from anything ex- 
cept loneliness. Yon surely don’t study in your room 
after dinner, and it will be more pleasant for 3*00 to 
pass the time before going to bed with us.” 

“ Very much pleasanter ; but I fear mv French would 
suffer. I dare sa3* 3*011 all speak English when you 
are together, like so many foolish children that 3*011 
are ? ” 

“ Well, perhaps we do,” replied Henrietta, smiling 
at Miss Jones’s reproving shake of the head ; “ but if 
3*011 come, it will make us speak French, and that will 
be doing an act of duty in another wav, — though I 
can’t see the use of boring one’s self with that stupid 
French after school-hours ; it’s quite bad enough to be 
plagued with participles and irregular verbs for seven 
hours of the day without inflicting them on one’s nerves 
after dinner. The rest ought to freshen 30U for the 
next day’s work instead of doing you liari:^. Now just 
tiT it, Miss Jones.” 

“ You talk like one who has no care be3*ond putting 
in a day as pleasantly as 3*011 can, without looking for- 
ward to the morrow. My great object while I am here 
is to acquire a thorough knowledge of French, so as to 
enable me conscientioush* to teach it when I return to 
England. Everything like amusement must be sacri- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


47 


ficecl to self-improvement ; wliile that is in m}^ power 
I cannot atforcl to lose a moment.” 

“ Bon Dieu ! ” exclaimed Henrietta, languidly throw- 
ing lier head on the back of hav faiiteuU and stretching 
her feet on the little brass fender; “ it makes me feel 
quite guilty when I see you so earnest about study. It 
is all such a bore to me, except music and dancing ; I 
can quite understand any one having a passion for them. 
I wonder you don’t throw all your marvellous energy 
into music, for instance ; but every one has not the fete 
sacre^ to be sure, and without that, energ}’ is of very 
little use.” 

“ I don’t think the feu sacre., as you call it, -was the 
thing most w'anting ; I had plenty of that. Perhaps 
it was a punishment.” 

“ What was a punishment?” inquired Henrietta. 

Miss Jones unbuttoned her sleeve, and baring her left 
arm, held it out for her companion’s inspection. 

Henrietta uttered a ciy of horror. The flesh was 
literall}’ withered off the bone. “ What happened to 
3’our arm, — did j’ou burn it?” she asked eagerl3^ 

“No, m\* dear; but disease did the w'ork as well. 
I went as music-mistress to a school in the North of 
England after m}^ father’s death. I had not been long 
there wdien I was seized with an acute rheumatism that 
left my arm as 3’ou see it. If the physical suffering and 
its consequent deformity had been the only or the worst 
result of my illness, I should have borne it unmurmur- 
ingh’ ; but the loss of my arm was to me the loss of 
bread. Music was my only accomplishment, and in 
losing the power of utilizing it I lost the means of liv- 
ing. Then my passionate love for music made the priva- 
tion painful be3-ond what I can describe.” She paused 
fora moment, and then continued: “But God never 
tries us above our strength. An old friend of my 
father who heard of m3" misfortune wrote to me from 
London, telling me his house should be my home 
till I was sufficiently recovered to provide one for mv- 
self. I accepted the offer with thankfulness, and spent 
four mouths with the kind old gentleman, who insisted 


48 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


on m_y having the best advice and every comfort that 
could hasten my restoration to health. The next diffi- 
culty was, How was I to get a living? M}' arm, al- 
though completeh" relieved from pain, was too weak 
and emaciated for me to think of using it on the piano, 
— at least for a veiy long time. I always regretted 
having neglected to cultivate languages more assidu- 
ousl}’ ; and it seemed as if fate had now driven me to 
atone for the deficienc}' in my earl}^ education. I talked 
over the matter with m3’ friend, who highl3’ approved 
of m}' idea, and generously provided me with sufficient 
money to defraj^ my expenses to Paris. I had a small 
sum saved, which would enable me to remain there a 
3’ear for the purpose of acquiring French and improving 
my self generall3\” 

“But surely — I beg 3’our pardon, 3'ou won’t be 
offended. Miss Jones, but does Madame St. Simon 
accept 3’our services without rewarding them ? ” 

“ Yes ; that is to sa}’, she considers them sufficientl3’' 
paid Iw giving me board and lodging. It used not to 
be so formerlj’, I believe. The 'governess who was 
here four years ago received fifty francs a month over 
and above the advantage of assisting at the classes.” 

“And does Madame St. Simon think 3’ou unworthy 
of the same consideration?” 

“ Perhaps not ; but the fact is, there are more teachers 
of English in Paris now than there are pupils, and 
Madame would find twent}’ to take m3’ place to-moiTOw 
on the same terms, if I left her. Of course it seems a 
hard bargain, and one has man3’ discomforts to put up 
with ; but the advantage of hearing French spoken 
with a pure Parisian accent, and acquiring the idiom 
of the language are great compensations.” 

Henrietta was too much touched to laugh ; but she 
could hardl3’ restrain a smile when Miss Jones alluded 
to the Parisian accent. 

“Can any one be so infatuated!” she mentally ex- 
claimed. “Why, ces messieurs hardly keep their 
countenances when Miss Jones greets them w’ith her 
inevitable Bone jour , Moshu. To be sure, it ’s an 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


49 


improvement on hong jour ; but it’s as far from the 
Parisian accent as Piccadilly is from the Boulevards.” 

Nevertheless; Miss Jones was happy in her illusion, 
•and believed firmly that at the end of her year she 
would be as competent to advertise, “ French like a 
native,” as any one of the hundreds who dail}' publish 
their perfections in the columns of the ‘‘Times.” 

The bell rang for the parlor- boarders’ dinner. 
Henrietta jumped up to arrange her hair and make 
some changes in her dress ; Miss Jones rose too. 

“ Pra3’ don’t go. Miss Jones, you may as well studjj' 
here till dinner is over ; Yjlease do, and keep m3’ fire 
from going out,” urged the young girl. “That’s the 
w’orst of a fire, one has to look after it; Justine is 
never in the wa3’ when one wants her, and it destro3’S 
one’s hands poking in the ashes.” 

She rounded her nails delicately wdth the towel, 
powdered her face with poudre de violette (Madame St. 
Simon recommended this as a precaution against the 
action of cold on the skin), and wishing good-b37’ to 
Miss Jones, went down to dinner. 

When it was over Henrietta returned, with Mabel 
Stanhope and Mill3' Jackson, to her room, expecting to 
find Miss Jones there ; but Miss Jones was gone. 

“You look full of something important, Henrietta,” 
Mabel said, as soon as the three girls were seated 
round the fire ; “ let us hear wdiat it is.” 

“Did 3’ou ever see an3’ one dying of hunger?” 
demanded Henrietta after a moment’s pause, looking 
very seriously at her companions. 

The two girls stared at her and at each other. 

“I want to know have 3'ou ever seen any one d3’- 
ing of starvation,” repeated Henrietta; “because I 
have.” 

“Well, more shame for 3^011 !” retorted Mill3’. 
“ Wh3^ didn’t 3’ou give them something to eat, and 
they’ w^ouldn’t have died?” 

“ I did not say’ they did die,” corrected Henrietta. 

“Then what did y’ou say’, or what do you want to 
say’? Somebody died, and somebody didn’t die.” - 

4 


50 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


“Do try and be a little more explicit, Henrietta,” 
entreated Mabel. 

“I said,” continued Henrietta, “or at least I now 
say, there is somebody in this house who is literally 
starving, and that we must try and come to the rescue, 
as Milly accused me of not doing, or else she may die 
under our eyes.” 

‘‘For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean? Whom 
are 3'ou talking about?” inquired both the girls in the 
same breath. 

Henrietta was sincere in her pity and concern for 
Miss Jones, but it was not in her nature to let an 
oi)portunity like the present pass without turning it 
to account. She had created a sensation, and was 
resolved to make the most of it. 

“Can’t 3'ou guess?” she exclaimed with a look of 
reproachful surprise. “ WI13’, the poor soul is fading 
da3' b3’ da3" ; and to think we have been living in com- 
fort, and eating bountiful meals while there was a 
fellow-creature under the same roof with us wanting 
the veiy necessaries of life ! ” 

“Do in pity’s name tell us whom 3011 are talking 
of,” demanded Mabel impatienth’. “Is it one of the 
servants, or — no, it cannot be one of the pupils? ” 

“It’s far worse,” replied Henrietta ; “it’s far more 
dreadful for tis. If you had seen poor Miss Jones an 
hour ago, and heard her telling me of the miseries she 
has to endure, it would have horrified you as much as 
it did me.” 

“ Miss Jones ! ” cried both girls together. 

“Yes,” continued Henrietta, “she is actually sinking 
awa3" for want of food ; fancw her telling me she passes 
da3’s without anything but dry bread for her dinner ! ” 
And then, her better nature again uppermost, Henrietta 
described, in much more elaborate words than simple 
Miss Jones had used, the hardships and privations the 
good soul was enduring dail3' and hourh’ beside them. 

“Juno is a wretch to treat her so,” broke in Mill3' 
Jackson, bringing down her hand on the table with a 
blow that made her “ Noel et Chapsal” jump. “ I ’ll 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


51 


write to Papa and tell him to expose her in the ‘ Times/ 
He ’s a lawyer, yon know, and he ’ll make her wince ! ” 
Much good that would do poor Miss Jones ! She 
might be starved to death before your father could get 
his letter published,” said Henrietta. 

“That is true,” said Mabel; “we can do no good 
by attacking Madame St. Simon. The only thing we 
could do would be to subscribe enough to have Miss 
Jones admitted to dine in the salle-a-m. anger. But 
liow could we do that without her knowing it ? Do 
3’ou think Madame St. Simon would keep the secret 
for us if we trusted her?” 

“ She would keep it by sending Miss Jones to the 
right-about,” replied Mill}’ ; “ and we should be favored 
with a homil}’ on the propriety of minding our own 
affairs.” 

“ No, I don’t think that would answer,” said Henri- 
etta ; “whatever we do must be done without either 
Juno or Miss Jones knowing anything about it. My 
idea was that we should give tea-parties turn about in 
our rooms, and manage to have something more sub- 
stantial than tea for Miss Jones ; we could easily do it, 
I think, as some of us go out almost every day, and 
she never notices what we buy. The moment we 
enter a shop she is too busy listening to the idioms to 
mind anything else. We might go to the cha.rcutier' s 
and get some sliced ham and cold meat ; she would 
enjoy that with her tea. At all events, it would be 
better than to let her go on living three days in the 
week on dry bread and greas}" water. What do j'ou 
think, Mabel?” 

‘‘ I think you are a dear, kind-hearted girl,” returned 
IMabel warmly, “and it’s the wisest thing we could 
do, at least for the present. Let us begin our heavy 
teas to-morrow ; whose turn is it to be first?” 

“Mine,” cried Henrietta; “I’ve already invited 
Miss Jones, I was so sure you ’d both agree to it ; but 
had we not better tell the others? Harriet Wood I am 
sure of. Then the Flemings would enter into the 
scheme ; they ’re all fond of poor Miss Jones.” 


52 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“The only thing that will stand in her way,” con- 
tinued Mabel, musingly, “is the speaking I^ngiish ; if 
we could secure one or two natives to sprinkle the 
conversation with Ihe idioms. Suppose we asked Ma- 
dame Laurence? She’s very good-natured and pleas- 
ant when she has n’t a crise de oierfBP 

“Oh, no,” protested Milly ; “ it would be no end of 
a bore to have her.” 

“ Well, I have given my word to Miss Jones that we 
would speak French,” said Henrietta. 

After an indignant protest, Milly agreed to make 
good the promise given in her name. 

Next day, during the walk in town, the parlor- 
boarders contrived to purchase the heavy extras for the 
tea without awaking the suspicions of the governess. 
Mill}' Jackson’s turbulence, so often in the way of their 
school-room schemes, proved of infinite value here ; 
she managed so completely to shock Miss Jones by the 
impropriety of her language, just as they reached the 
charcuterie shop, that the good soul began to deliver in 
French to her nnrul}" pupil a sound lecture on her evil 
courses. A few minutes sufficed for Henrietta to 
secure an over-abundant stock of provisions ; half a 
cold roast fowl, a goodly slice of ham, a large piece of 
veau pique^ which the charcutier recommended as 
being quelque chose d^exquis. Henrietta secured the 
fowl in her leathern bag, which threatened to burst 
under the unusual tension, and the other delicacies 
were stuffed into the pockets of her companions. 

When they had finished their purchases, Miss Jones 
turned in astonishment to the shop-window, and in- 
quired what they had been buying. 

“ Only a little English ham,” replied Henrietta, “ and 
something cold to eat in m}^ room. Sometimes I have 
no appetite at dinner ; but before going to bed I feel 
ravenousl}^ hungry. By the way, you won’t forget 
your promise to take tea with me to-night.” 

“ My memory is seldom at fault where there is a 
cup of tea in the wa}’,” returned Miss Jones, good- 
huraoredl}^ ; “ but, m3" dear, I don’t think it is a whole- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


63 


some habit to give yourself, eating meat before going 
to bed.” 

“It’s more wholesome than going to bed hungry,” 
asserted Milly Jackson, “and it’s fun to make a cup 
of tea in one’s room, with the houillote on a jolly fire. 
It reminds one of the kettle ! ” 

“ I do believe Milly ’s growing sentimental,” laughed 
Mabel. 

“ I wish she w'ould make up her mind to grow sensi- 
ble,” observed Miss Jones, shaking her head at Milly. 

Punctual to her appointment, at half-past seven Miss 
Jones knocked at the door of Henrietta Wilson’s room, 
where she found the 3^oung people alread}* assembled. 
Miss Jones attached great importance to all points of 
etiquette. She accepted Henrietta’s invitation as seri- 
ously as if it had come from a lad}' of the Faubourg St. 
Germain, and came dressed for the occasion. Her 
gala gown was a gra}' silk, shot with copper-color ; it 
might have been of ten 3'ears’ standing, but Miss Jones 
said it dated only five 3'ears back, and Miss Jones’s 
accurac}' was above suspicion. A pair of black lace 
mittens, which always accompanied the dress on state 
occasions, completed her resemblance to her grand- 
mother’s ghost. She advanced to Henrietta and 
wished her good-evening, as if she had not seen her an 
hour before, and then went through the same ceremonv" 
with the other 3'oung ladies, who, being in possession 
of the real intention of the gathering, were all too 
kindl}" disposed towards the poor governess to laugh at 
her ceremonious greeting. 

“This is 3'our place. Miss Jones,” said Henrietta, 
rolling an arm-chair near the fire ; “ you will be next 
the table, and close to the fire. Will any one have the 
charit}^ to make the tea? 1 feel I am not equal to it 
to-night. Those gymnastics do fatigue one so ! ” and 
she let her arms fall, as if her strength were unequal to 
the exertion of raising the teapot. 

“ Paresseuse ! ” chided Miss Jones, shaking her curls. 

“Oh, that reminds me we have to speak French 
to-night,” said Henrietta. 


64 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“It’s too bad to talk French over tea,” protested 
Miss Fleming, the daughter of a London tradesman, 
who sent his three girls to Belle-Vue because it was 
“ the thing.” 

“Quite a heres3",” declared * Milly Jackson; “but 
we’ll get used to it, as one does to other heresies. I 
feel half-converted to Romanism by those splendid ser- 
mons we have been hearing at the Madeleine these 
last three months. It wms awfull}" sleepy at old 
Brown’s last Sunday; I just thought I’d.tiy him again 
and see if he improved by contrast, but be did n’t ; he 
lost fifty per cent beside those delightful French 
abbes. Did n’t you think so, Henrietta? ” 

“Well, I must say Mr. Brown is much less impres- 
sive, and touches me less than ces messieurs^’’’ replied 
Henrietta. “There is something in their sermons that 
goes right to one’s heart. Harriet, will 3’ou please help 
to that ham? Miss Jones, sermz-vous'' 

But Miss Jones laid down her knife and fork. “ M3’' 
dear,” she said, addressing Henrietta, with the earnest 
look and voice that defied prevarication, “3011 don’t 
mean to sa3" that the false doctrines 3 011 have been 
imprudent enough to listen to of late have made any 
serious impressions upon 3'our mind ? ” 

“ I have enjoyed the preaching ver3’ much,” replied 
Henrietta, “ because, as Mill3' says, it is so much finer 
than an3Thing we have been accustomed to from Mr. 
Brown, or indeed any one else I ever heard. Beyond 
that, I did not think about it.” 

“ You must promise me,” said Miss Jones, “ that 
3’ou will give up going to the Madeleine, or an3’ other 
Catholic church for the future.” 

“We’ll promise anything 3*011 like. Miss Jones, if 
3*011 w’ill only take your tea,” said Henrietta, growing 
fidgetj* at the turn the conversation w*as taking. She 
knew more by instinct than by reflection how deepl3* 
religious Miss Jones was, aiul how painfully it must 
affect her to hear a subject to her so all-important, dis- 
cussed i[i this light wa3*. 

Mabel Stanhope, who had said nothing, was watch- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


55 


ing Miss Jones, and saw by her countenance that she 
was distressed. Anxious to change the conversation 
she said to her, — 

“Have you read Massillon’s sermons?” 

“ No, I never have been fortunate enough to meet 
with them. Have you them, my dear?” 

“ Yes, I have a beautiful edition, that Olga gave me 
on my fete ; if you like, I should be very happy to lend 
them to 3"ou. I have just finished the second volume, and 
can let you have the first ; or if you prefer it, we might 
read some of them together. The next best thing to 
listening to a fine sermon is to hear one read.” 

“ That would be a great treat to me,” replied Miss 
Jones, her e^^es kindling. 

“ Well, then, we’ll begin to-morrow at recreation if 
you like; it is not Herr Carl’s daj’, is it?” Mabel in- 
quired. 

“No, to-morrow will be Wednesday,” replied Mill}". 
“ Didn’t he look a swell in his new hat?” 

“ Poor old man,” laughed Mabel, “ I could not make 
out what change had come over him when I saw him 
coming along the corridor ; the old hat had grown so 
used to his head that the head seemed quite odd with- 
out it. What a wonderful antiquity he is ! When he 
gets on Beethoven he works him&elf into such a state of 
excitement that I believe he actuall}’ fancies he lived 
and conversed with the grand 7 naUre. The enthusiasm 
is catching.” 

“ Yes, that’s the wa}" 3-011 get round him, Mab,” said 
Mill}" Jackson; “when he began raving over that 
never-ending sonata the other day, you turned 3'our 
moon-struck e3"es on him, with the tears running over. 
I could n’t squeeze a tear out if I were to die for it. I 
think Beethoven a bore, and Mozart a ditto, and — ” 

“ And Milly Jackson an uncivilized Vandal,” inter- 
rupted Mabel, with a flash in her dark eyes. 

Milly laughed. “ Well,” she said, “ I forgive 3"Our 
impudence, Mab, it becomes you so much ; 3*011 look 
deliciousl}" prett}- when 3*0111* eyes are in a passion.” 

“You are a goose!” retorted Mabel, — her color 


56 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


heip^litening under the glances of admiration which 
Milly’s oddly-turned compliment directed to her. | 

“ Miss Jones*,” said Millj Jackson, “ Mab’s eyes re- 
mind me of a pretty French idiom. Shall I tell it to 
you ? ” ”, 

Miss Jones suspended her teacup between the saucer 
and her lips to catch the idiom. 

“ File a des yeux a la perdition de son ame.” 

“ I don’t like joking on sacred subjects, my dear,” 
said Miss Jones gravely ; “ pray find some more suit- 
able motive for bon-mots than 3*our own, or 3*0111* neigh- 
bor’s salvation.” 

‘‘I didn’t invent it,” returned Mill3% “I never said 
anything half so clever. It was a French officer who 
whispered it to Mabel the other day, when we were 
crossing the Tuileries gardens; she didn’t hear him, 
being as usual in the clouds. I wish it were to me he 
had said it ! ” 

“Will 3*ou haA^e another cup of tea, Milly?” asked 
Henrietta abruptl3*. 

“Yes, if you please, I have onh* had three.” ' 

“Are 3’ou serious about the French officer whisper- 
ing that insolent remark to Mabel?” inquired Miss 
Jones uneasih*. 

“ Oh. you’re not so naive as to mind Milly’s nonsense. 
Miss Jones,” replied Henrietta, “ she read it in some 
French novel.” 

“ French novel ! ” echoed Miss Jones, horror-stricken, 
“ 3’ou don’t mean to say 3*011 read such things, m3* dear 
child?” 

“Well, where’s the harm if I did?” replied Mi% 
evasivel3’. 

“ Where would be the harm of drinking poison ! You 
cannot have been so foolish, so imprudent as to allow 
3^ourself such a dangerous amusement?” 

Milly made no answer. 

“What novels have you read?” inquired Miss 
Jones. 

“Not many,” replied Milly, “ and those I did read 
were the most innocent things ever written, and the 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


5T 


most amusing. Then 3^ou know, Miss 'Jones, there is 
nothing so improving as reading- in a language yon are 
learning. I learned more idioms in ‘ Monte Cristo ’ 
than in all the exercises 1 ’ve been stupefying myself 
over for the last six months.” 

Miss Jones was too ignorant of current French lit- 
erature to be much enlightened by Milly’s explana- 
tion. She had heard of Alexandre Dumas as a popular 
novelist, and an immoral one, but of his works she 
knew nothing. It did not occur to her to ask the 
author’s name, so she accepted Milly’s assurance that 
“Monte Cristo” was a most harmless and instructive 
book. Still it was a novel, and as such must contain a 
certain dose of love-sick romance, and such-like absurd- 
ity ; she therefore repeated her warning against French 
novels, and earnestly begged her 3"oung friends to de- 
prive themselves for the future of such dangerous read- 
ing. The 3mung people listened to the lecture more 
patientl3^ than the3" would have done under other cir- 
cumstances, but it was quite evident that the presence 
of the governess was a considerable restraint upon 
them. Nine o’clock struck ; Miss Jones rose, and 
thanking Henrietta for her hospitality, to which the 
poor soul had done full justice, bade the party good- 
night. 

When the door closed behind her. Miss Wood ex- 
claimed : “Well, I’ve enjoyed 3’our tea very much, 
Henrietta, but I can’t sa3" as much of the conversation. 
We did n’t expect to be entertained with lectures about 
what church we should go to, or to be scolded for read- 
ing novels. Milly might sa3^ in this case, that she did 
not see the fun of it.” 

“ Milly did n’t want to see an3" fun in it,” retorted 
that 3'oung lady. “We asked old Jo to give her a 
lieav3' tea, and not to amuse ourselves. As to the 
lectures, 3’ou know one might as well expect a raven 
not to croak, as expect old Jo not to lecture. She 
can’t help herself, scXwe must onty tiy to keep out of 
the way of it.” 

“ In that case you had better not repeat in future 


58 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


any pretty speeches yon hear in the streets,” suggested 
Henrietta. 

No ; that was very green of me,” confessed Mill3^ 
“ I ought to liave knowni better ; but my innocence 
and confiding frankness are constantl}^ getting me into 
scrapes.” 

‘‘ I can’t admire your frankness,” said Mabel, “ in 
throwing the absurdity on me. You might as w^ell 
have acknowledged it as a specimen of j’our own 
erudition.” 

“ I never steal other people’s thunder,” replied Milly. 
“ I wish it had been said to me by that handsome lieu- 
tenant. Such a mustache ! ” and she threw up her 
eyes. 

Very odd I never noticed him,” observed Mabel 
incredulousl}". 

^•We met him twice, Sunda}’ and Sunday week.” 
continued Millv, “ at the gate of the Tuileries Gardens, 
and almost in the same spot both times. I think he 
must live somewhere near the Palace ; I ’ll keep a look- 
out for him next time we go that way. If Mademoi- 
selle Eugenie came with us, we might have some fun ; 
but old Jo is so awfull}’ proper there is no having a lark 
with her.” 

“ A\Jiat kind of a lark could you expect to have?” 
inquired’ Mabel wonderingly. “You wouldn’t be so 
absurd as to encourage an impudent man to speak to 
3’ou in the street?” 

“ Oh, Mab, get up into the firmament, it’s the best 
place for 3^011,” retorted Mill3% pettishl3' ; ‘‘ 3'ou are only 
an authority on morality and metaphysics, and I hate 
one as much as the other.” 

There w'as something so ludicrous in the vehemence 
with which she emitted this sentiment that it was 
impossible not to laugh at it. 

After, all, thought Mabel, though Millv was a diahle 
jini., as the French girls called her, she could not 
dream of encouraging the impertinence she pretended 
to be amused at. 

No doubt if Miss Jackson had looked at the matter 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


59 


seriously, she would have shrunk from exposing herself 
to the risk of encouraging it ; but unfortunately it was 
not her way to look at anything seriousty. It would be 
.capital fun to get up an acquaintance with a Frenchman, 
something to enliven the dull* promenade ; it was so 
stupid and monotonous every day down the Champs 
Elysees to the Tuileries and back again. Of course, it 
was not to go farther than a mere “ lark.” 

The tea-party broke up, and the young ladies, wish- 
ing each other an affectionate good-night, separated. 


' 60 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER VII. 


NCE the idea of striking up some sort of acqnaiii- 



w tance with the French officer had taken posses- 
sion of Miss Jackson’s mind, she set to work to bring 
it about as speedil}- as possible. 

One thing was evident, Miss Jones must be kept 
out of the way ; there was no chance of making lier see 
the fun of it, and her presence w^ould be an insuperable 
barrier to the success of the frolic. But how was it to 
be a's^oided? Sometimes Mademoiselle Eugenie, the 
Unc/ere^ accompanied the English boarders in their 
walk, but this only occurred wFen Miss Jones had some 
particular reason for not going out, and she was too 
thoroughly a Briton to forego her daily constitutional 
unless from actual necessity. Still, somehow or other 
she must be got rid of. Mill}" trusted to her usual 
good luck, and betook herself to Henrietta Wilson to 
discuss the matter. 

Henrietta w^as leaning pensiveW on the window-sill, 
gazing at vacanc}", when Miss Jackson burst into the 
room. 

“ Henrietta, would it not be jolly if we could make a 
conquest of that handsome hussar?” 

Henrietta started with a pretty affectation of terror. 

“How — who? Oh, 3"es, the gentleman 3’ou spoke 
of last night. It certainly w"Ould be a pleasant break 
in this miserably dull life of ours to have something to 
do and to think of — something more exciting than 
grammar and the rule of three.” 

“ Well, let ’s get up a ste<?ple-chase for the lieuten- 
ant, and see which of us will make a conquest of him,” 
suggested Mill}-. 

“ Vf hat a strange creature 3-011 are!” ejaculated 
Miss YvTlson, turning her blue eyes languidl}- on her 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


61 ‘ 

practical friend. “It takes all the poetry out of life 
to hoar 3'ou talk of the possible growth of 83*111 [)atliy 
between kindred spirits in that coarse, matter-of-fact 
wa}'.” 

“ Kindred humbug ! ” retorted Milly. “ Please leave 
off the sentimental, and talk sense. If we are to liave 
any fun, we must get old Jo out of the way. Have you 
an3*thing to suggest in order to arrive at this desirable 
result ? ” 

Henrietta mused a moment. “ Suppose we ask 
Mabel?” 

Mill}^ burst into a scornful laugh. “ Suppose we ask 
Monsieur I’Abbe, or Madame St. Simon ! Consult 
Mabel Stanhope? Suppose we consult the Pope ! ” 

That is a good thought ! ” exclaimed Henrietta ; 

“ I wonder it did not strike us before.” 

“ What ! about consulting his Holiness? ” 

“ How absurd 3*011 are, Mill3* ! I mean about onr 
making the Pope an excuse for getting Miss Jones out 
of the wa3*.” 

“ The girl is gone clean mad ! ” 

“ Just listen, and see if I am. On coming out of the 
Madeleine on Sunda3*, we could easil3* arrange to go for 
our walk after service without provoking suspicion.” 

Miss Jackson clapped her hands. 

“ Yes, that’s a bright idea ; but mind, not a word to 
Mabel Stanhope. Mab is a dear girl, but she ’s a vast 
deal too high-minded for me. I ’d break m3* neck trying 
to reach up to her principles, so I don’t intend to try.” 

Fortune, however, came unexpectedly to the assistance 
of the two conspirators. On coming down to breakfast 
next morning they heard that Madame St. Simon was in 
bed with a bad sore throat, and the doctor said she must 
not get up that day. This joyful news was greeted with 
universal thankfulness. The certainty that the terrible 
Juno was safe in her bed for the whole da3% with the 
chance of her being kept there several days, seemed to 
make everybod3' in the house breathe more freel3’. 

That same morning Miss Jones woke with a tooth- 
ache ; it grew worse as the hours wore on, until when 


62 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


it was time for her to take the parlor-boarders for their 
walk, the pain was so agonizing that it was impossible 
to think of her going out ; and they positively refused to 
let her come with them. Milly Jackson went to Madame 
Laurence, and asked her to allow Mademoiselle Eugenie, 
the lingere^ to accompany them instead. Madame Lau- 
rence was pei’plexed. Whatever she did was sure to 
be w'l’ong. If Miss Jones went out, she might get much 
worse, and be incapacitated for w'ork for several daj’S, 
perhaps ; and Madame Laurence would be scolded. If 
she sent Mademoiselle Eugenie, she w^as certain to be 
rated for taking her away from the mending, of which 
there was always more to be done at Belle- Vue than any 
one set of fingers could get through in sixteen hours a 
day. 

“Look here,” suggested Milly, “ wh^^ need Juno 
hear anything about it? Nobod}^ is going to peach.” 

This was true, and it would be a great treat to poor 
Mademoiselle Eugenie to escape for an hour from her 
prison, wdiere it wais stitch, stitch, stitch, all the week 
round. Madame Laurence decided that the lingere 
might go. 

The part}' set out in high spirits. They had shopping 
to do, so they turned into the Faubourg St. Honore. 
On reaching the Rue Royale, they saw a grand military 
funeral advancing to the Madeleine. The insignia laid 
upon tlie pall showed that the last honors were being 
paid to a marshal of France. 

“ There will be glorious music at the Mass — suppose 
we turn in,” suggested Milly. 

There was a willing assent from her companions, and 
they hurried on to the church. 

“Has any one money to pay for the chairs?” in- 
quired Milly. 

“ I have plenty,” exclaimed Henrietta, drawing out 
her portemonnaie., from w'hich she took a five-franc 
piece. But the qiiHeuse had no change. 

“ AVhat ’s to be done? ” wdiispered Henrietta to Made- 
moiselle Eugenie. 

“ There is a cake-shop close at hand ; I ’ll run across 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


63 


and get the change ; ” and so saying the lingere darted 
off to the pastiy-cook’s. 

“ Will ces demoiselles do me the honor to accept the 
hospitalit}^ of my regiment, who are too happ,y to offer 
them even so slight a proof of admiration and respect?” 

Henrietta crimsoned to the roots of her hair ; Milly 
gave a slight start, as turning round she recognized in 
the speaker the handsome officer in the hussar uniform. 
There was no time either to refuse or accept, for the 
stranger, bowing, pointetl to four chairs in front of them, 
and turned away. The}’ stood irresolute for a moment. 

Mill}" was the first to speak. 

“We may as well sit down; he’s gone, and will 
never know whether we stood on our dignity or not ; 
and the chairs are paid for.” 

The qxtheuse came back to the group, and addressing 
Olga as the most French-looking of the trio, “ Le frere 
de Mademoiselle a paye,” she said. 

“ C’est tres henreux,” remarked Milly, evading a 
direct lie, which she always preferred doing, when 
convenient. 

Just as they were seated. Mademoiselle Eugenie re- 
turned with the change. She took for granted they were 
sitting on credit, and would pay when the old woman 
came back. The wolf had passed while the shepherd 
was absent ; but the sheep told no tales. 

They all looked curiously round to see if their host, 
as he had constituted himself, had really disappeared, 
or if he was lurking in the neighborhood ; but they could 
see no sign of him. Perhaps there was a slight disap- 
pointment in the discovery ; however, the young ladies 
kept it to themselves. 

They had met the handsome officer, and he had 
spoken to them, and expressed in the name of his regi- 
ment his admiration and respect. He had ventured on 
no commonplace personalities ; he had, as it were, put 
himself indWidually out of sight, lest it might startle 
their timidity, and' prevent their accepting his deferen- 
tial assistance. There was something chivalrous in this, 
and in his vanishing so suddenly from their presence. 


64 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Tliey were pondering over the romantic little adven- 
ture wlien the queteuse came liehind Olga’s chair, and 
handed her a card on which was written in pencil the 
list of the music to be perfoi-med that da}'. “ Monsieur 

told me to take this to Mademoiselle ; it is the pro- 
gramme.” 

Olga took it without comment. 

This singling her out was very perplexing. Did 
the dark-eyed hussar tell the old womati to do so, or^M 
was it a fancy of her own? She longed to ask, but? 
dared not, lest she should rouse the suspicions they , 
w^ere all anxious to avoid. 

“ I suppose the old crone takes you for his sister be- 
cause you look more Frenchified thanw'e do,” explained 
Milly, in answer to her owm thoughts, and unconsciously 
answ'ering Olga’s. v 

“ I wonder if he told her I w'as his sister,” mused Olga. " 

“ It was a delicate way of accounting to the quHevse 
for his interference,” replied Henrietta. “I dare say „ 
he pointed to us all, just saying his sister and her friends 
were in want of chairs.” 

“ What a sweet uniform it is ! so becoming, the blue 
and silver. Don’t you wish he may come back? ” Hen- 
rietta exclaimed. 

“ Well, I’m afraid he wouldn’t be much fun,” w'as 
the unsentimental rejoinder, “or he \vouid not have 
bolted like that.” 

“ You have the oddest way of talking,” replied Hen- 
rietta, wdth a look of disgust; “ the sweetest poetry of 
life you translate into slang. You have no higher aim 
in existence than seeing the fun of it.” 

‘ ‘ That ’s more than I ’m likely to do with you ! ” W'as . 
the impudent retort. 

“Let me look at the programme, Olga,” Henrietta - 
said, stooping across her saucy neighbor. Olga handed, 
it to her. Mechanically turning the card in her fingers, 
she saw on the other side, printed in the usual form, — | 

Adrien de Perronville, 1 

Lieutenant au 2 erne Hussar ds. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


65 


Henrietta slipped the card into her pocket, and made 
no remark. 

Miss Jackson did not relish the turn things had taken. 
It was evident to her that she was not the object of at- 
traction to the hussar, and it did not enter into her notion 
of fun to play daisy-picker to her prett\' neighbor. She 
was satisfied Olga was the magnet that drew the needle, 
and felt vexed with her for carrying off the prize before 
the}’ had fairly started on the race. Olga, unconscious 
of the bitter feeling she had so unwittingl}* provoked, 
was absorbed in the sweet strains that the organ and 
military orchestra were alternately pouring forth. There 
was no mistaking the look of rapt delight in her face ; 
Miss Jackson saw it, and her bitter thoughts began to 
melt away. “Olga,” she whispered, “I’m not sav- 
age with you ; you could not help it, and I don’t w’onder 
he fell in love with you ; I would m3’self, if I were a 
man.” 

“ Who fell in love with me? ” asked Olga, m3’stified. 

“ The hussar of course ; has he left no wound in your 
heart?” 

“No,” and she looked too frank to be doubted; 
“ indeed I hardly looked at him. I don’t fancy he saw 
me, for it was to Henrietta he spoke.” 

“ Yes, so it was,” assented Mill}’, “ and Henrietta is 
just out of her mind about him.” 

“ Mesdemoiselles, it’s time to be going,” broke in 
the little lingere ; “you must be at home by a quarter 
to twelve, and it ’s past eleven alread}’.” 

The three girls rose reluctantly. 

“What a pity to leave before the band goes!” 
exclaimed Henrietta. “I was in heaven during that 
requiem.” 

They extricated themselves slowl}' from the crowded 
church, and were again in the sunshine of the clear 
winter’s morning. 

Henrietta Wilson in her slow, nonchalant way 
lingered a little behind her companions. Monsieur de 
Perronville came up to her and inquired if she had 
enjoyed the music. 


6 


66 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“Oui, Monsieur, grace k vons,” she replied, with a 
deep blush that gave her pretty face a brightness it 
lacked in repose. “I am too happj'. Mademoiselle^’^ 
he said, “to have been allowed the privilege of ren^l 
dering such a trifling service to so charming a person.^ 
This day shall be a memorable one in my life ; I feel 
that my destiny hangs on it. Do not go, I implore , 
you,” he added impetuously^ as she attempted to pass 
on, “ without one word that I may treasure as a ray of 
hope ; say, shall I not see y’ou again? ” 

Henrietta was gi’owing nervous ; the others might 
miss her and turn round. Ihen she had not expected 
so sudden a solution of hei own hopes and fears ; this 
taking her heart and will by storm was a stronger 
measure than she was prepared for. 

“ Monsieur, I beseech you, leave me ! ” she pleaded, 
raising her large blue eyes, that fell again as they met 
his glance of ardent admiration. “ If 1 am seen speak- 
ing to you” — and she looked the picture of girlish 
modesty and terror. 

“Your name? — you cannot refuse that.” 

She gave it in a trembling whisper, and fluttering like 
a frightened bird, brushed past him. Another second, 
and it would have been too late. Mademoiselle Eugenie 
had turned to speak to her charge, and descrying Henri- 
etta hurrying up to her companions, who had already 
crossed the Place, she stood w^aiting for her. 

“ What have you been lagging behind for?” inquired 
Miss Jackson, eying her curiously. Henrietta took 
no notice pf the question, but turned to the Imgere^ 
saying : 

“ I had to stop to fasten my boot-lace ; the tag was 
broken, and it took me so long to manage it with a 
pin.” 

The excuse satisfled the unsuspecting chaperone; but 
not so Miss Jackson. 

“ I was not born yesterdays Henrietta,” she muttered 
in English to the delinquent. 

Miss Wilson pretended not to hear the interesting 
announcepient, but walked all the way home close to 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


6T 


Mademoiselle Eugenie, leaving Olga and Milly to keep 
each other compan3^ 

Henrietta did not know whether she was intensely 
happ3% or something the reverse ; her heart beat 
quicker as she recalled the impassioned tone and looks 
of the handsome Frenchman. 

It was not the wa}" an English gentleman would have 
sought to know her, or to win her love ; but then 
foreigners were so different, so much more imaginative. 
Besides, the circumstances were peculiar ; if he had not 
taken that bold step, and introduced himself, he might 
never have been able to approach her in the ordinaiy 
waj’' prescribed by societ3\ Of course he would soon 
ask to be presented to her guardians, that he might lay 
his hopes at their feet, and claim before the world the 
object of his.idolatr3\ In the meantime he must seek to 
win her heart, so as to insure his success with her 
family, and seize every occasion of meeting her and 
burning the incense of his adoration at her feet. What 
a dream of happiness it was ! How suddenlj^ the dull 
ennui had vanished, and with it the weariness that hung 
over the monotonous routine of her life ! Had he fol- 
lowed her to see where she lived? Was he stealing fur- 
tively" among the trees around the cafes cliantants^ and 
keeping pace with the Ungere and her trio?. She fancied 
he was, and longed to look round to make sure of the 
fact ; but that might attract her companion’s notice, so 
she prudently’ forbore. 

In this train of thought Henrietta reached Belle-Vue. 
The dejeuner bell was ringing. The parlor-boarders 
went up to their own rooms. Milly^’s was Number 4, 
and nearer the landing than Henrietta’s ; she reached 
it some seconds before her slower friend appeared in the 
corridor. Henrietta was passing her by when Miss 
Jackson caught her by- the arm. 

“ Come in for a moment ; I want to speak to you,” 
she said, pushing her door open. 

“ I can’t wait now, Milly ; I have to arrange my hair. 
You heard the bell ring ; let me go.” 

“ No, I won’t let you go,” was the resolute reply, 


68 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


and the pressure grew tighter on the small wrist 
“ Whom do you want to dress your hair for? Blue-coat 
is not to breakfast here, — unless you’ve invited him, 
perhaps.” 

“ You want to get me a manvais Milly ; you 

know verv well how it annoys Madame St. Simon when 
w^e are late ; ” and Henrietta strove to extricate herself 
from the tightening fingers. 

“Madame St. Simon happens to be in bed, belle 
scrypuleuse / so you need not fret about her august 
displeasure. Madame Laurence is not so exacting.” 

This fact Henrietta had forgotten. She had no other 
reason to give for refusing to wait and hear what her 
tormentor wished to say ; so, making a virtue of neces- 
sity, she replied, — W 

“ Oh, I forgot that ! ” and tlie,y entered together. 

Miss Jackson locked the door and placed herself 
against it, as if she feared her unwilling listener might 
escape through the key-hole. 

“ Wliat did Blue-coat sa}' to you? ” she began. 

“ Why, you were as near him as I was when he spoke 
to us,” replied Henrietta evasively. 

“ When he spoke to you in our presence I heard what 
he said ; I did not hear what he said when 3*011 tarried 
at the gate to speak to him. I should like to have that 
pleasure second hand.” 

“Did she see us? or is she guessing?” thought 
Henrietta. “ I don’t know what you arc talking about,” 
she added aloud; “I consider 3*011 are taking a great 
liberty in calling me to account in this manner ; ” but 
her voice had a nervous tremor in it that satisfied her 
inquirer there was something to fear, something to 
hide. 

“ Henrietta,” she continued, “ when we planned this 
spree together I understood it was to be a spree, and 
no more ; that we were to enjoy the fun together, and 
share the scrapes if it brought us into any. You don’t 
seem willing to keep the bargain, so I draw out of it. 
You ma3’ sail in your own boat, and steer it the best 
way you can. I won’t peach on you ; but I won’t help 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


69 


you. I thonght we were good chums ; it seems I was 
mistaken.” 

She left her post against the door, and put her hand 
on the key to unlock it. “ Stop, Milly,” Henrietta en- 
treated, in a low voice, — there were steps along the 
passage, — “ don’t let us quarrel ; I will tell you every- 
thing.” 

She did not want to make an enemy of Miss Jackson, 
though she believed her too honorable to “peach,” as 
that young lady expressed it ; but she knew how diffi- 
cult, if not impossible, it would be for her to carry on 
either correspondence or acquaintance of any sort with 
her admirer if Milly withdrew the aid of her shrewd 
head and read}" presence of mind. To avoid her obser- 
vation was equally impossible ; so she judged it better 
to secure her help by making her a conlidant. Perhaps 
Miss Jackson guessed the train of reasoning that led 
her to this resolve, for she answered proudly, — 

“ No, Henrietta ; I don’t want to force your con- 
fidence. There’s no need for us to quarrel though; 
we can be good neighbors, if we are no longer sworn 
friends.” 

“ Milly, don’t speak to me so coldly. I value your 
friendship beyond everything, except — ” She stopped, 
and burst into tears. 

Miss Jackson had a supreme contempt for scenes ; 
but there was real feeling in this one. The girl’s heart 
was full, and she wept genuine tears. Milly was not 
proof against their honesty. 

“ Well, I’m sure I don’t want to quarrel,” she pro- 
tested ; “ and I said nothing to hurt you, — or at least, 
I did n’t mean to do so. Sit down, and leave oft’ cry- 
ing ; there ’s a dear, do.” 

She sat down herself, and her friend did the same. 

“ Monsieur de Perronville stopped me at the gate,” 
Henrietta began. 

“Monsieur de Perronville!” echoed Milly in sur- 
prise. “Is that his name? How did you find it 
out?” 

“ The programme he sent us was written on the back 


70 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


of his card. Olga did n’t notice it, I suppose.” She 
drew the card from her pocket, and handed it to 
Milly. - 

Adrien de Pekronville, 

Lieutenant au erne Mussards, 

Miss Jackson kept her eyes on the name long enough 
to have learned one three times its length by heart. 

“ He must have been watching us all the time,” 
Henrietta continued; “for the moment you three 
passed he stepped out from behind one of the pillars, 
— 5^ou know, in front of the church. He asked me 
how we liked the music, and said what a privilege it 
was to have been allowed to assist us — ” 

“ Why do 3'ou keep saying us f ” Mill}^ snapped. 

“Well, me, then — and hoped he should see me 
again. And oh, Milly, if jou could have seen his ej^es ! 
The^^ are perfectl}^ distracting ! ” 

Miss Jackson shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Did he ask jmu where 3’ou lived? ” 

“ No ; but he asked me m}^ name.” 

“ And 3'ou told him, of course? ” 

“ I could not help it. I was terrified lest Eugenie 
should turn round and see him ; so to get awa3’ I told 
him.” 

The corridor bell sounded, and cut short the confes- 
sion. Henrietta started up. 

“ Tlie3" are at the table alread3’ 5 ^ must go and take 
off m3^ bonnet,” she said, untying her strings. 

“ Take it off here. You can wash your e3’es and ar- 
range your hair here as well as in 3^our own room. And 
is that all he said? ” 

“That’s all, indeed, Mill3',” and Henrietta plunged 
her face into a basin of cold water ; while her companion 
made a hast3' toilet, — sending a boot fiying over the 
bed, the missile unceremoniously flattening Henrietta’s 
bonnet against the wall. 

“ Honor bright, Henrietta? ” 

“ Honor bright, Milly.” 

“ Well, — oh dear ! I can’t find m3" left shoe ! — I sup- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


71 


pose it ’s a case of love at first sight ; and Monsieur — 
what do 3'ou call him?” 

“ De Perronville.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose he intends to come and propose for ou 
to Juno.” 

This was an abrupt finale to the romance that startled 
Henrietta’s sentimental nerves. 

“That never struck me,” she replied; “ but I hope 
he won’t. It will be time enough when my guardian 
comes at Easter.” 

But there was no time to speculate on this now. 
The}^ were already late, and hurried down stairs to- 
gether. Luckily for the late comers, Madame St. 
Simon’s substitute — the mild, nervous Madame Lau- 
rence — was less severe on unpuiictualit\' than herself. 
She accepted Miss Jackson’s apology, and proceeded 
to carve the chickens, a task which absorbed all her 
faculties. \ 


I 


72 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HE autumn had been unusually mild, and crept on 



_L into December, as if unwilling to let winter take 
its place. Towards Christmas, however, winter set in. 
The snow la}" deep on the ground, and the north wind 
blew with icy breath through the thin, clear air. A 
terrible time it is anyw-here, such a winter ; but who 


can tell its horrors in a French pensionnat f 

The hoary tyrant pressed lightly on the parlor- 
boarders at Belle- Vue. They had ways and means of 
abating his rigors beyond the reach of the pjension7iaires 
and the ill-paid soiis-7naUresses. They had warm cloth- ^ 
ing and comfortable rooms with roaring fires to keep 
their 5 ’oung blood in healthy circulation. An hour now 
and then passed in the cold, badly-ventilated class-room 
had no worse effect than to make them appreciate all 
the more the delight of their pleasant fireside when they 
returned to it. / 

It had frozen hard during the night, and the windows 
were lined with a thick layer of frost the next morning, as 
by the dull light of the candle the pensioimaires turned 
out of their beds and groped half-asleep into the lavoir. 
But the water was frozen, and no amount of pumping 
could squeeze a drop from the iron tubes. 

“Quelle chance!” exclaimed a tiny child of some 
seven years old, who had stood by shivering while the 
w’ater was being coaxed up unsuccessfully, “ we sha’n’t 
have to wash to-day ! ” 

And they did not w^ash that da}", nor for many days 
after. The Imgere — who sat in a corner of the lavoh' 
while the ablutionary process went forward — told the 
housemaid of the water being un-come-at-able, and de- 
sii'ed her while the frost lasted to pour it out over-night 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


73 


into the basins. This was done, with the satisfactoiy 
result of tinding a lump of ice in each basin next morning. 
Some of the more courageous pupils broke the frozen 
surface, and by a little patience obtained sufficient water 
to effect a pretence of washing their hands at least ; but 
the great majority accepted the privation as a happy 
escape from the horrors of soap and water for one day 
more. 

Some of the English girls applied to the parlor- 
boarders in this emergency, and were hospitably re- 
galed with warm water b3’ those 3'oung ladies ; but those 
who were not on terms of sufficient intimacy to justify 
their applying to the same source, remained, like their 
French friends, unwashed. 

Things continued in the same way for three days 
more ; the frost showed no intention of abating its 
rigors. Something must be done, the sous-maitresses 
thought ; the children could not go on unwashed till the 
thaw came and melted the water. Madame St. Simon 
must be spoken to. 

This desperate resolve had been reached by the Hn~ 
gere.) the mciitresse de troisieme^ and Madame Laurence, 
as the}’ discussed the subject on the third morning, while 
the pupils despatched their incomplete toilet in the dress- 
ing-room. Each was anxious to shirk the mission, know- 
ing how all announcements of that nature were generall}^ 
received by their Superior. 

“ I think,” said Madame Laurence, pljdng at her 
knitting, and assuming her gentlest voice to soften the 
lingere, “ I think. Mademoiselle Eugenie, it would come 
better from 3’ou, seeing that you superintend the lever, 
to mention the matter to Madame.” 

“From me!” exclaimed the lingere, throwing up 
her hands and eyes. 

“ Yes, from 3’ou,” repeated the maitresse de troi- 
sieme, coming to her compeer’s rescue and her own. 
“ The arrangements of the liouse don’t come into our 
province in any way, and I dare sa}’ Madame would 
think it an infringement on yours if we interfered in 
this business ; we are responsible for the minds of ces 


74 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


demoiselles^ and 3"ou are supposed to look after their 
bodies.” 

“ Their linen, not their bodies,” protested the 
Iwgere. 

“ Their linen bears a nearer relation to their bodies 
than to their minds,” insisted Madame Laurence. 

This was a truth Mademoiselle Eugenie could not 
gainsa3\ ‘‘But,” she urged, “ I never go to Madame’s 
cabinet unless she sends for me. I don’t see her for 
weeks together ; 3’ou see her every day, both of you ; 
it would be so eas^’ to allude en passant to the weather, 
and the ice, and then bring round about ces demoiselles 
not w'ashing themselves.” 

She looked so piteousl}^ at Madame Laurence that 
the maitresse de premiere was on the point of yielding. 

Madame Emeline interfered. 

“ I am perfectl}’^ satisfied that it would be much better 
received from 3’ou, Mademoiselle Eugenie ; Madame 
has a high opinion of 3’ou, and she will understand at 
once 3’our anxiety on the point, and think it very 
praisew^ortliv of 3’ou to interfere about it. Besides, 
mon Dieu! what are 3"ou frightened at? Madame 
must order hot w^ater to be brought to the lavoir till 
the water can be turned on again in the pipes.” 

“ Yes, and that will oblige the cook to light her fire 
an hour earlier ; that ’s all ! ” and the lingere nodded, 
first to one mistress, and then to the other. They 
knew well wdiat the nod implied. Still Madame Lau- 
rence’s kind heart smote her when she looked at the 
frightened face of the lingere; perhaps the3' might 
share the unpleasant business, and not throw it entirel3' 
on poor Eugenie. 

“ Suppose 3'ou wait in the cloisters this^morning till 
Madame St. Simon comes to the premiere for the 
grammar examination at half-past nine ; 3'ou might 
speak to her at the school-room door ; she would be 
more tame wdth ces demoiselles within hearing ; besides, 
I shall be there, and if she tries to browbeat 3^011, 1 ’ll 
come forward and take 3’our part.” 

This w^as a venturesome promise on the part of 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


75 


Madame Laurence ; but she was carried away by her 
feelings, and did not reflect on her words. 

The ling ere yielded, seeing, indeed, that escape was 
impossible. If she did not take the initiative, the 
pupils might tell the tale in the parloir^ where their 
black hands would strike horror on the nerves of 
some sensitive mother, and bring out an explanation. 
The inevitable consequences would be a request to 
see Madame St. Simon, and an indignant protest 
to that lad}" against the sanitary conditions of her 
establishment. 

Who was to blame? The Ungere of course, whose 
duty it was to see that ces cheres enfants were surrounded 
with every appliance for health and cleanliness. The 
result would be a violent attack on the said Ungere for 
her gross neglect and carelessness, ending perhaps in 
her dismissal as a peace-offering to the maternal anger. 

Decidedly, there was no avoiding the unpleasant 
duty. Mademoiselle Eugenie determined to state the 
case that very morning in their hearing, as suggested 
by Madame Laurence. 

Accordingly, at twenty-five minutes past nine, she 
stationed herself at the door of the first class, which 
was thrown open the moment the bell rang to announce 
the great lady’s approach. 

The presence of Mademoiselle Eugenie, there and 
then w^as sufficiently unlooked-for to account for the 
stare of inquiry fixed on the thin, white face by 
Madame St. Simon. 

Trembling like a culprit, stuttering nervously, “ Par- 
don, Madame,” she began, “I did not like to disturb 
you by asking an audience. May I venture to detain 
you a moment?” 

There was no word or smile of encouragement, 
simply the freezing stare that went on to say ; “You 
must have some good reason to account for this un- 
toward liberty.” Mademoiselle Eugenie felt that she 
had, or else that look would have frozen the words in 
her throat. 

“ I wished to inform Madame that for the last 


76 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


four da3's there has been no water in the lavoir^ 
owing to the frost, and that in consequence, ces 
demoiselles — ” 

“What do yon sa^' ? ” interrupted Madame , St. 
Simon, in a voice that struck her subaltern duml) with 
terror. “No water, because it froze! Jamais il n’a 
gele dans ma inaison ! ” 

She looked down the two rows of listening faces in 
the school-room ; but every lid fell under the flashing 
eye. No one was brave enough to dispute the prepos- 
terous athrmation. The mistress swept past her pupils 
with a haught}' bow in recognition of their deferential 
obeisance. The door was closed on the Iwgere., wdio 
slunk awa}' like a guilty thing to mourn ovei’ her owm 
fool-hardiness, and reproach the evil counsellors who 
had falsely persuaded her to take the desperate step, 
and now left her to bear the consequences alone. 
Madame Laurence had remained a silent spectator of 
her colleague’s discomfiture, too cowardly to venture a 
w’ord in fulfilment of her promise. She absolutely 
asked herself if, after all, it might not have been the 
fault of the pupils themselves, or Mademoiselle Eu- 
genie, who had not pumped suflicientl}’ to bring up the 
water. There wms a such a tone of indignant convic- 
tion in Madame’s voice ! Still, the w'ater teas frozen in 
the basins. There must be a mistake somewhere ; she 
would look more closely into it to-morrow^ morning. 

Unfortunately, no amount of “ looking into it” could 
thaw the rigid blocks next morning in the little cuvettes 
dotting the long shelf that ran round the lavoir. 

Madame Laurence suggested that the basins should be 
filled at night and brought in under the beds, wdiere the}" 
would be sheltered and catch some little glow' of warmtii 
from the young sleepers nestling overhead. Some of 
the elder girls adopted this suggestion, and the experi- 
ment proved more successful than the former one. 

Madame St. Simon did not think it necessaiy to 
inquire what amount of truth there might have been in 
the Ungerds complaint. She contented herself wdth 
repelling the impertinent accusation as a libel against 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


77 


her house. She hy no means nndervalned cleanliness ; 
on the eontraiT, she considered it next to godliness in the 
persons of* other people, perhaps before it in her own ; 
but if she allowed herself to be convinced that her pu- 
pils were without water, and consequent!}’ unwashed, 
some step would have to be taken towards remedying 
such a state of things ; in a word, money must be 
spent. There was no other solution to the difficulty. 

^lonsieur I’Abbe had already placed before Madame 
the necessity of having a stove put in the lavoii\ and 
liglited an hour before the school was called, but the 
suggestion met with so peremptory a repulse, that the 
Chaplain felt it was useless to urge it. 

“Young people must be taught to rough it; those 
who are eleves dans dii coton are never good for any- 
thing,” was the principle which justified the system of 
starving and perishing to Madame St. Simon’s accom- 
modating conscience, and the young people managed 
somehow to rough it with that enduring buoyancy of 
early youth, which is the panacea of youthful ills ; but 
in how many delicate frames did such training sow the 
seeds of disease and premature decay. 

On one, less youthful than the rest, its baneful 
influence was daily telling with slow but steady hand. 
Miss Jones was now, after the first montli of unmiti- 
gated frost, so strikingly changed that Madame 8t. 
Simon could no longer blind herself to the fact. It was 
Thursday evening ; the premieres were in the salon 
taking tea ; even to Miss Jones, the wretched trash 
was welcome, because it was hot. 

Madame St. Simon, seated in her luxurious fauteuil 
beside the fire, watched the teacher’s face as she 
drained the cup eagerly, and laid it down beside her 
without asking to have it replenished. Poor jaded 
face, pale with such a sad, toil-telling paleness! 

The Frenchwoman’s heart smote her. , 

“ Mees does not think our French tea worthy of 
being called for twice,” she said playfully. 

The semblance of a badinage from her employer took 
Miss Jones so much by surprise that she could hardly 


78 ' MABEL STANHOPE. 

believe it was addressed to herself. But the bright 
was fixed on her with a more kindly glance than she 
had ever met there before. Self-denying in little as in 
great things, she had not asked for the second cup, lest 
it might be depriving another of her due. Smiling her 
thanks to Madame St. Simon, she now held out her 
empty cup to Miss Jackson, who was presiding over 
the teapot. 

“Too late, old lady, unless you like it from the 
kettle. Oh, here’s .a cup poured out that nobody has 
claimed ; so much the worse for them, and the better 
for .you.” 

It was her own cup, which, in obedience to the maxim 
charit}^ begins at home, Millj^ had wisely" secured at an 
earl}' stage of her hospitable dispensations ; but she did 
not choose to say so ; it would have prevented Miss 
Jones from accepting it. 

“ Approchez-vous du feu, Mees,” was the next ex- 
pression of newly-awakened solicitude that greeted her 
from Madame St. Simon. “ You do not look well this 
evening. Are. you suffering?” 

“No, Madame,” and a grateful smile lighted up the 
wan face. “I feel a little tired, but not ill.” 

“Ah, I fear you overwork 3’ourself in 3'our anxiety 
for improvement ; it is praiseworthy, no doubt, and 
I wish ces jeunes tetes would take a lesson from you ; 
but remember health is more precious than learning ; 
3’ou must take care of 3’our. health, chere AleesN 

Take care of her health ! Wliat a mocking sound 
the words had, coming from such lips. The woman 
w'hose selfish avarice denied her the common neces- 
saries of life, fire and meat, in return for her honest, 
devoted labor, telling her to take care of her health ! 
Perhaps some too intelligible answer was visible in the 
quivering lip that could cast back no word of well- 
earned reproach, for Madame 8t. Simon, turning aside, 
touched a little timbre beside her as a signal for the 
dancing to begin, and during the remainder of the 
evening took no further notice of Miss Jones. 

There is nothing so hard to forgive as the sight of 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


1 


79 


suffering in others caused by our own injustice. There 
is a voice in such testimony of our evil deeds which 
cannot be silenced, until remorse, that last hope of 
cure for the guilty conscience, be put to death. 

With Madame St. Simon this forlorn hope was not 
yet quite dead. There were moments when her con- 
science awoke and summoned her to its angry tribunal, 
dragging up'her unjust deeds into the light of that truth 
that lies deep at the bottom of every immortal soul. 
In moments like these, the selfish, calculating woman 
would shrink within herself, and try to escape the 
searching scrutiny that she dared not meet with the 
humility of Christian self-reproach. She could not 
attempt a reformation whose first act must be an un- 
sparing blow at her own interest. After all, other 
schools w^ere no better than hers. The mistresses were 
paid the same salaries as in the best institittio7is in 
Paris ; sixteen pounds a year to the maitresses cle 
premiere and deuxieme., twelve to the troisieme and 
quatrihne. Miss Jones had nothing ; but then no one 
paid an English governess nowadays. In many schools 
they were even obliged to pay half-price, and Miss 
Jones paid nothing ; she had, over and above her board 
and lodging, permission to assist at the French lessons 
gratis. If the food in the refectory was not strengthen- 
ing enough for a woman of her age and apparentl}" del- 
icate health, she might, by paying lift}' francs a month 
extra, have her dinner with the parlor-boarders. This 
was a great concession on the part of Madame 8t. Simon, 
who had proposed it to Miss Jones when engaging her ; 
but Miss Jones had declined, from motives of unwise 
economy, Madame St. Simon considered. However, 
that was her affair, and if her health suffered, she had 
no one to blame but herself. So sophistry pleaded in 
defence of self-love, and little by little conscience grew 
fainter in its pleadings, till at last it ceased to be heard 
at all. 


80 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


CHAPTER IX. 

M ISS JONES was growing every day paler and 
weaker, till one morning, on attempting to rise, 
she fell back exhausted on her pillow. There was no 
bell in her room, so she made up her mind to lie there 
till some one passed to whom she could call out. Her 
room was situated in the top of the house, among the 
chambres cles domestiques ; the roof slanted .down 
towards the outer wall, so that it was onl}’ possible to 
stand upright on a space of about three feet. The 
furniture consisted of an iron bedstead, a deal table, 
on which stood a delft basin and a jug without a handle, 
a large trunk that contained the governess’s small stock 
of clotlies, and did double duty as a writing table, two 
cane ehairs, and two wooden pegs fastened in the door. 

The only window, an ceil de boeuf in the roof, was 
not tight, and in wet weather Miss Jones’s precaution 
of pasting an old number of the “Times” against it 
did not prevent the rain from dropping through and 
freezing into icicles along the wall and on the foot of 
the bed. Miss Jones had borne it while she could ; 
but human strength has its limits of enduranee, and 
a day came when the frozen limbs .refused their services ; 
they could work no longer. 

What was to become of her? Where was she to 
go? 

The poor woman sobbed out loud in her helplessness. 
One of the maids, passing down to her morning’s work, 
put her ear to the key-hole and listened. The sobs 
continued; she tapped gently at the door. “Entrez,” 
said Miss Jones. 

“Mademoiselle est souffrante?” inquired the girl 
kindly. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


81 


“Yes, Louise, I am very ill. Will you strike a 
light for me, please ; you will find my candle on the 
trunk close to you ; the matches are here, on the chair 
beside ni}" bed.” 

Louise struck one of them, and groped for the 
candlestick. 

“Is there nothing else I can do?” she asked; 
‘ ‘ would Mademoiselle like a tisane f I could get 
something read3' in no time.” 

“ Thank j^ou, ma bonne Louise, I had rather not ask 
for anything just 3"et. Can 3^ou tell me what the 
hour is?” • 

“ It is five minutes past six. Mademoiselle is think- 
ing there is no fire downstairs, but the cook will light 
the kitchen one in half an hour.” 

Miss Jones thanked the good-natured girl, but per- 
sisted in sa3dng she wanted nothing for the present. 

“I was not thinking of the fire, when I asked 3"ou 
the hour,” she added, “I was wondering whether any 
of the demoiselles en chamhres were up ; but it is too 
earl3" 3'et. If 3^011 will knock at Miss Mabel’s door in 
about half-an-hour, and ask her to come to me when 
she is dressed, I will be ver3" grateful to you.” 

Louise promised to do so, and went straight to 
Mabel’s room. 

Mabel sprang out of bed before she had finished her 
message, and in less than ten minutes the3' were both 
beside the sufferer. Louise had not exaggerated. 
Miss Jones looked dying ; whether she was so or not 
the 3"oung girl could not sa3’, but that she was seriousl3^ 
ill it required no practised e3’e to see. 

“Dear Miss Jones, I fear 3’ou are ver3' ill; Louise 
had better go at once to Madame St. Simon, and have 
the doctor sent for.” 

“Yes, I fear there is no help for it; I must see a 
doctor ! ” 

There was a quiet despair in the wa3" she said it, 
that struck Mabel to the heart. She stooped down and 
kissed Miss Jones without speaking. 

“ You must go directl3^ to Madame,” she said, turn- 
6 


82 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


ing to the maid, “and ask if the doctor may be sent 
for at once.” 

“ Deranger Madame a six heures du matin ! ” echoed 
the girl in a tone of stupefaction. “ Par exemple ! ” 

“ It is nearly half-past six now ; but that is nothing 
to the purpose ; Madame will understand the necessity 
there was for disturbing her, when she hears what you 
have to say. Don’t stand there staring at me, Louise, 
but do as I tell 3^ou ! ” she added impatiently^, seeing 
the girl did not move. 

“Madame is never called till half-past seven. If 
every^ teacher in the house were ill, it would be as 
much as my place is worth to wake her up at this 
hour,” replied Louise doggedly. “I dare not do it, 
and I won’t ; there ’s not one of us that would.” 

• Miss Jones had not spoken ; but a low moan escaped 
her now. 

“ I must go myself, there is nothing else to do,” 
concluded Mabel ; and she left the room, telling Louise 
to stay with Miss Jones till she returned. 

Mabel Stanhope was a brave girl, with crusaders’ 
blood in her veins ; but as she drew near the door of 
Madame St. Simon’s dressing-room, she trembled like 
Ihe veriest coward. She took no heed of the throbbing 
of her heart, but opened .the door with a steady hand . 
The fire was already burning brightly?" ; great logs piled 
up in the wide chimney sent out a blaze that made the 
cabinet de toilette look cheerful in the gray luxurious 
dawn. What a contrast the room was, with its soft car- 
pet and rich crimson portieres glowing in the firelight, 
to that other room she had come from ! The curtains 
had been drawn aside by Madame’s/emme de chambre 
when she stole in to light the fire. 

Mabel’s knock aroused the sleeper ; she thought it 
was her maid coming back with the cafe an lait. 

“ Deja vous, Jeannette ! ” she cried, in a sleepy voice 
from under the downy edredon that nestled about her 
head and shoulders. 

“I am sorry to disturb you, Madame, but no one 
else has the courage to do so,” was Mabel’s apology, 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


83 


in a slightly sarcastic tone. “Miss Jones is ill, and 
requests permission to have Monsieur Royer sent for.” 

“ Is Miss Jones so ill as to make it necessary for me 
to be disturbed at this unseasonable hour?” was the 
sharp retort. 

“ Yes, too ill to be kept waiting a moment more 
than is absolutely necessary. May I send for the 
doctor ? ” 

“Certainly; and another time, if 3"ou should have 
any early message for me, you can send it by one of 
the servants.” 

“No servant in your house, Madame, would venture 
to disturb you at so unseasonable an hour,” with a 
slight emphasis on the wwd ; “this was the answer I 
got when I requested one of them to take you the 
message.” 

Madame St. Simon raised herself on her elbow, and 
pushed aside the curtain that concealed her from 
Mabel’s view ; she could not see the face that was 
turned towards her, but her own was visible enough in 
the clear blaze of the fire-light that came streaming in ■ 
upon it from the open door of the dressing-room. It 
was never a pleasant face to look upon, but now there 
was an expression in the green e3’es that made it 
absoluteh" repulsive. 

“ Mademoiselle, my servants know their dut}" better 
than 3"ou,” she cried, thrown off her usual self-command, 
“ 3’ou would do well to take a lesson from them, and 
learn a little of the respect due to 3’our superiors.” 

“ I am sorry you consider the performance of my 
duty to Miss Jones a want of respect towards von, 
Madame,” Mabel replied apologetically, as she with- 
drew. 

“ I hate that girl,” muttered Madame St. Simon, as 
the young girl disappeared ; “ with all her douceur., she 
has a spirit that would not quail before Lucifer.” 

Mabel rang for the concierge, and putting a five- 
franc piece into his hand, desired him to take a fiacre and 
drive as quickly as possible for the doctor. 

On returning to Miss Jones, she found Louise wait- 


84 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


ing with some anxiety to hear the result of her daring 
step. 

“ Monsieur Royer will be here immediately. Madame 
desired me to send for him at once,” she said, smiling 
at Louise’s eager look of inquiry. “ But we can’t leave 
3’ou here, dear Miss Jones ; 3’ou will die of cold before 
3^011 have time to get well ; w.e must get 3^ou down to 
my room. Now 3^011 need not protest ; there’s no pos- 
sible difficult3’ in the way except 3’our own obstinac3’, 
and that I don’t intend to listen to. The sofa with 
3' our mattress on it will make a delightful bed for me, 
and we shall be as snug as two kittens together.” 

Miss Jones shook her head, and smiled at the bright 
comforter. 

“ I ’ll let the doctor see 3^ou first,” Mabel went on. “ I 
dare say it will help him in his treatment of the case 
to see in what a luxurious wa3’ 3’ou have been pampering 
3'ourself.” 

She looked round the wretched den, — it could hardly 
be called a room, — and her thoughts grew bitter as 
the3^ went back to the scene she had just left. 

“ Louise,” she said, turning to the maid, “ go and 
light the fire in m3" room, and put the little kettle be- 
side it. Get the bed read3" for Miss Jones, and then 
come back to me.” 

The maid left them. 

“ You are shivering, my poor child,” said the sick 
woman, in a voice so low that it was scarceh" audible ; 
“go to your room, — it is too cold for 3-011 to stay 
here.” 

“ My dressing-gown is wadded,” replied Mabel, draw- 
ing the blue cashmere garment closel3" round her; “ 1 
don’t feel the least cold. Oh ! dear Miss Jones, how 
you must have suffered in this dreadful place ! How 
unjust it seems ! ” 

Miss Jones laid her feverish hand on the young girl’s 
arm. “ The fox has his den, and the birds of the air 
their ^ nests ; but the 'Son of Man had not whereon to 
lay his head,” she murmured. 

Mabel’s heart was too full to speak. She drew the 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


85 


thin, hot hand under the coverlet, and sat silent, in a 
kind of awe-struck reverence, like one who had been 
thrust suddenly into the sanctuary while some great 
mystery was being evolved. And what a sublime mys- 
tery it is, that wrestling of the soul with God in the 
moonlit darkness of Gethsemane ! 

“ Would 3’ou like me to read a little?” Mabel asked, 
after a pause. 

Yes ; you will find it under my pillow.” 

Mabel knew what the “it” meant, and putting her 
hand gentty under the pillow, drew out the little w^orn 
black book that lay like a talisman under the sufferer’s 
head. Her last thought on lying down, her first on 
waking, was given to that book. It was her one 
earthl}' comfort. She turned to it now in her sore dis- 
tress, and listened with grateful love to the words of 
wisdom that fell from its sacred leaves. 

Mabel opened at hazard the sixth chapter of St. 
Luke : ^ ‘ Blessed are 3’e that weep ; . . . blessed are ye 
that hunger ; . . . woe unto 3^011 that are rich, for 3’ou 
have received 3’our consolation in this world.” 

The words swept like notes of heavenly music over 
the stricken spirit, and a smile full of “ the peace that 
is not of this world ” overspread her features. 

Mabel went on reading till the candle had burned 
low in the socket of the brass candlestick, and flickered 
feebl3" in the daylight struggling through the “ Times” 
against the window. She closed the book, and, on a 
sign from Miss Jones, laid it back in its old resting- 
place. 

“Is the window broken?” was her reflection; and 
she stood up and passed her hand inside the “ Times.” 
It was crackly with frozen rain-drops, and a keen 
draught came searching through the fissures. “Has 
Madame St. Simon ever been up here, Miss Jones?” 
inquired Mabel. 

“ No. I dare sa3' she thinks I am ver3’ comfortable.” 

Mabel had her own opinion on that head, but made 
no remark, onl3^ blew out the light and sat down 
again. 


86 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“How long the doctor is coming!’’ Miss Jones 
said, as if speaking to herself; “I wonder if the}^ 
really sent for him.” 

“ I sent the concierge myself,” Mabel replied ; “ but 
even in a cab he could hardl^^ have been to the Eue 
Richelieu and back by this. It has not struck seven 
yet.” 

“ Yes, I forgot that ; the time seems so long when 
one is in pain ! ” 

There was a noise on the staircase, — a heavy step 
followed by a lighter one. It must be the doctor. 

Mabel opened the door, and stood waiting. 

Monsieur Ro3^er was a stout, comfortable man, who 
cultivated a proper degree of benevolent interest in his 
patients, — no more ; not a man to be carried away b}^ 
his heart, or surprised into any imprudent displaj" of 
feeling ; but w’hen he entered that garret and looked at 
the figure on the bed, he was startled out of his profes- 
sional phlegm. Of course he took for granted his pa- 
tient was one of the servants ; but even for a servant, 
accustomed as the}" are in Paris to be stowed awa}" in 
pigeon-holes, this was cruell}" comfortless. Not a 
scrap of carpet on the cold red bricks for the feet to 
rest upon in turning out of bed ; no fireplace ; no 
window. But he was there to cure, not to pit}". He 
asked a few conventional questions, and felt the sick 
■woman’s pulse. 

Miss Jones had little to say. The room told her 
tale better than she could. There was no chance, no 
possibility, of cure while she remained there. The 
case was one of rheumatic fever, brought on apparently 
by cold and privation. 

“ Is there an infirmary for the servants attached to 
the house? ” inquired Monsieur Royer of Louise. 

“ Ma foi, non. Monsieur; ce serait trop de luxe 
pour nous 1 ” answered the girl, without seeing the 
drift of his question. 

“Mademoiselle is the English governess,” interposed 
Mabel, blushing violently ; she thought he meant to 
insult her poor friend. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


87 


“ Ah, pardon ! II me semblait impossible ; ” and he 
cast an explanatory^ glance at the ceiling, that almost 
touched his head. 

“Yes, Monsieur, y-ou could not believe it possible 
for a gentlewoman to be lodged in such sorry plight ! 
But w'e can remove Miss Jones to a better room ; she 
cannot remain here.” 

“You are right. Mademoiselle,” he said, looking at 
Mabel for the first time; “she cannot remain here, 
and if there be a room ready’ for her, she had better be 
taken there without delay.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes ; Louise and I will carry" her down at 
once.” 

“ You carry her! ” echoed the Frenchman, bending 
a look of mingled admiration and contempt on the 
slight young figure. “ I think my’ patient had better 
trust herself to my’ arms ; she will run a better chance 
of coming out of them with her limbs whole.” 

“ Merci, Monsieur,” replied Mabel, laughing ; “I’m 
stronger than you think ; still, perhaps y’ou could carry 
Miss Jones more comfortably’.” , 

It was a very’ bold step to take without consulting 
Madame St. Simon ; but Mabel had no time to think of 
that. The medical man asked no questions. It was 
not his concern. One thing was clear, — he could do 
nothing for his patient while she remained in an ice- 
house. The responsibility of taking her out of it did 
not rest with him. So Miss Jones was rolled up in her 
blanket, and Monsieur Royer lifted her up in his pow- 
erful arms as easily’ as if she had been a baby". He did 
it all very kindly’, — carry’ing his heavy bundle care- 
fully" down the narrow stairs, and laying it gently on 
the bed. 

Mabel thought him the dearest old man in the world 
(he was about five and forty). She held out her hand 
to him, with something like a tear glistening in her 
eyes, and said he was the best garde-malade she had 
ever seen. Monsieur Roy’er thought himself well paid 
for his trouble. 

“ If y’ou should ever want a demenageur., Mademoi- 


88 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


selle, I am always at 3^0111 service. And now, give me 
a pen and paper.” 

He wrote his prescription, and giving Mabel some 
verbal directions about the invalid, with a pleasant 
“ Bon jour, Mesdames, a demaiu,” took hi^ leave. 

Miss Jones liad made no resistance to Mabel’s per- 
emptor}^ orders for her removal ; and now that it was 
over, 'she la}" with an indescribable sensation of well- 
being in the warm bed, watching the fire crackling 
merrily in the chimney. Mabel tucked her in, and 
managed her altogether in a motherly sort of way, that 
was in itself exquisite enjoyment to the poor uncared- 
for woman, in spite of her acute physical pain. 

Monsieur Royer had said Miss Jones might have a 
cup of weak tea, and her young hostess set about 
making it. 

The pretty blue and gold tea-service — a parting pres- 
ent from Lady Stanhope — was symmetrically ranged on 
the tray, round the bright little English teapot, and the 
rattling of the cups and saucers, and the singing of the 
sooty little French houillotte sounded in Miss Jones’s 
ear like the sweetest music. 

The doctor had said she might have some dry toast, 
so Mabel sliced the remainder of a petit pain that had 
served the evening before at her tea, and knelt down 
before the fire to toast it, — hard work enough, with a 
French fire to deal with. 

Presently a firm, sharp step sounded along the cor- 
ridor ; it stopped for a moment at Number 15 , but 
passed on again. 

Mabel did not heed it ; but the sick woman did, and 
her heart grew faint at the sound. It was Madame 
St. Simon going to see how it fared with the occupant 
of the garret, full of wrath against the woman wdiose 
sufferings were a living condemnation of herself. Then 
came the thought, — if Miss Jones should die in the 
house ! Of course the English girls would give the 
true version of the story in their letters home ; and 
what an esclandre pour cette chere maison ! An 
sclandre was ^Madame St. Simon’s greatest earthly 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


89 


fear. She dreaded it more than sin or sorrow ; and 
no sacrifice would be too great to ward off such a 
calamity. 

“ I ’ll have her carried to the hospital if Monsieur 
Royer sa3^s there is danger,” she mentally resolved. 
“ He has not come yet. I must tell Fanchette to let 
me know when he does.” 

She knocked at Miss Jones’s door, and hearing no an- 
swer, opened it noiselessly, supposing the governess to 
be asleep. 

The empt}" bed undeceived her on that point. Where 
was Miss Jones gone? 

Madame St. Simon stood for a moment half doubting 
her senses. She saw at a glance that the room had 
been slept in the previous night. The candlestick was 
on the chair, pushed into a corner ; and the slippers 
lay beside the bed just as their owner had quitted 
them the night before. The whole air of the room was 
that of poverty in its sharpest form, — cold and sting- 
ing. The blast from the paper-covered window struck 
like a knife upon her head as she stood, angr}:' and 
revengeful, under the slanting ice-sprinkled roof, — 
revengeful against the victim of her selfish avarice. 
Not one gentler feeling, not one pang of remorse, tem- 
pered her thoughts as she turned awsiy. 

“ Cette petite Stanhope is at the bottom of this ; she 
has taken Jones to her own room, no doubt. Well, 
I am just as glad. Ro3’er won’t see her in this 
barraque.*^ 

This reflection seemed to bring relief to Madame St. 
Simon, and to mollif3" her towards her daring pupil. 
Perhaps after all it was the luckiest thing that could 
have happened. She held to keeping up her prestige 
with the medical man who attended her establishment ; 
and the sight of Miss Jones in such a place as this 
would be somewhat calculated to lessen it. 

In a moment her mind was made up, — self-interest 
carried the day against self-love. Mabel had braved 
her as no one ever dared to do ; but she would let that 
pass. It was better polic3’ to act the femme de coeur^- 


90 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


and seem grateful for her pupil’s kindness to the gover- 
ness. The resolution cost her a struggle ; but it would 
prevent an esclandre. No blow at her own heart or 
at any one else’s was too higli a price to pay for that. 
Then when Miss Jones was recovered she could find a 
pretext for dismissing her. 

With this palliative in her heart and her face com- 
posed into a smile, she knocked at Number 15, and 
without waiting for Mabel’s ‘ ‘ Entrez ” opened the 
door. 

“ Chere enfant ! ” she exclaimed, drawing the 3’oung 
girl towards her and kissing her forehead, “how can I 
thank you for your goodness to Miss Jones? I am au 
dhespoir to see the comfortless room she has been liv- 
ing in ! I shall never forgive m3"self for having trusted 
so completely to servants, instead of going mj^self to 
see how she was lodged. But my head is full of busi- 
ness, to which no one can attend for me. You must 
make allowance for m3" want of thought about such 
matters. Still, it is unpardonable, et j’en suis au 
dese spoil'.” 

Mabel was 3’oung enough to be duped b3^ the display 
of feeling, and, believing it genuine, grew remorseful 
for the angr3' thoughts she had harbored against her 
mistress. Miss Jones had no atonement to make. She 
had seen in her emplo3'er’s cruelt3’ the dispensation of 
a Will before which her heart bowed in meekest adora- 
tion ; whatever instrument He used, good or evil, to- 
wards the chastening of her spirit, it was well. She 
had felt no resentment against Madame St. Simon ; and 
when the latter held out her hand Miss Jones placed her 
own within it, and answered her inquiries as graciously 
as if the questioner had been her kindest friend. 

“ You must ask for everything she wants,” Madame 
St. Simon said, turning to Mabel ; “I will see the doc- 
tor m3’self when he comes. Imj^rudente ! are you 
giving her tea without permission?” 

“ Monsieur Royer said Miss Jones might have some,” 
Mabel replied, putting in a second lump of sugar, — 
jMiss Jones liked her tea sweet. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


91 


‘ ‘ Oh ! he has seen her then ! ” The thin lips grew 
thinner, and the face a shade paler. Neither the in- 
valid nor her nurse noticed the change. 

Mabel answered, unconscious of the stab her words 
were giving, — 

“ Yes, Madame. And he was so kind! He would 
not allow Louise and me to cany Miss Jones down 
stairs, but insisted on doing it himself.” 

If the speaker had been looking at Madame St. 
Simon, she would have been startled by the glance of 
hatred that shot from the light graj" eyes ; but Mabel 
was busy arranging pillows for the invalid and placing 
the tea and toast in her hands. 

So she had gained nothing by her cowardly conde- 
scension, the Frenchwoman thought ; Monsieur Royer 
has seen the governess in that reduit and drawn his 
own conclusions. Well, she must only put a bold face 
on it, and wheedle him into believing her guiltless in 
the matter, as she had Mabel. 

But she had enough of the business for this day ; so 
— with a few more sweet words and recommendations 
to Mabel not to gener herself in asking everything 
necessary to make Miss Jones comfortable — she took 
her leave. 

The doctor came the next day, as he had promised, 
and every day for many w^eeks longer. He was paid 
by the ear for attending the school ; so his visits cost 
no extra charge ; arrd her pupils took care that no 
comfort should be wanting to insure their teacher’s 
recovery. 

It was slow, and for a long time doubtful ; but in the 
midst of her sufferings there came to Miss Jones new 
and unsuspected revelations of love and gratitude that 
gladdened her heart and sweetened the bitter cup she 
was drinking resignedly. From her English pupils she 
had alwa3's met with respect and consideration ; so 
there w'as nothing yevy strange in their redoubled kind- 
ness, now that she was ill and especially dependent on 
them ; but that those mocking, unrul}’ French girls who 
had spared no pains pour lui faire la vie dure., as they 


92 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


expressed it, should come flocking at all hours, full of 
affectionate anxiet}", to inquire for her, — this was more 
than she had looked for. With all their thoughtless 
turbulence, the}" were kind and tender-hearted. It was 
fair game to turn Miss Jones’s phraseolog}" into ridicule 
and to mimic her peculiarities : in the first place she was 
English, and in the next place she was their teacher, — 
two titles to the insolence and dislike of every French 
child, boy or girl, which the}" seldom fail practically to 
acknowledge. 

But things were changed now. The ill-used teacher 
was suff’ering and unhappy ; and that pure undercurrent 
of tenderness which forms one of the most touching 
beauties in the French nature rose up to the surface in 
bright bubbles of kindness. All vied with each other 
in showing sympathy and contributing little delicacies 
for the sick-room. These were brought by parents and 
friends on the parloir day, and smuggled up clandes- 
tinely by the parlor-boarders, with notes from the 
donors scribbled on fly-sheets of school-books, as mys- 
teriously as if the contents had been the most compro- 
mising of billets-doux. At first when Miss Jones felt 
ill the children made no secret of their anxiety about 
her, and kept asking permission during the day to go 
and see her ; but this newly-awakened solicitude for her 
half-starved governess annoyed Madame St. Simon, 
and affronted her like a personal insult. The sous- 
maitresses were sharply rebuked for allowing these 
escapades into the precincts of the parlor-boarders, and 
were ordered to prevent them, under pretext that the 
least noise in the corridor was bad for Miss Jones. 

Had anything been wanting to stimulate these obe- 
dient pupils in their sympathy for the invalid, and desire 
to see her, this prohibition would have answered the 
purpose more effectively than any amount of encour- 
agement. No terror of Racine, or mauvais points., 
could deter them from stealing up to the forbidden 
ground, while Miss Jones’s recovery was held to be un- 
certain. They crept on tiptoe along the dark corridor, 
knocking gently at the door, which one of the parlor- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


93 


boarders was alwa^^s on the Tvatch to open. The latter 
feared at first that Miss Jones would be fatigued by these 
constant attentions, and wanted to forbid the pension- 
naires coming so often, but Miss Jones would not hear 
of it. 

“ Oh, no, let them come in, it does my heart good. 
I never guessed they cared so much about me,” she 
answered ; and so the tapping at the door was kept up 
briskly. 


94 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER X. 

““FT is an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Since 
I Miss Jones’s illness, the parlor- boarders had 
been escorted in their daily walk by Mademoiselle 
Eugenie, a circumstance which met with much appro- 
bation from both Miss Jackson and Henrietta Wilson. 

They had seen the dark-eyed hussar once while 
walking down the Champs El3’sees with Miss Jones, 
but an interchange of glances was all that passed 
between them. Monsieur de Perronville understood by 
a significant gesture from Henrietta that he must not 
venture any further recognition. So, la^fing his hand 
upon his heart, he stood looking at her from among the 
leafless trees, till she passed out of sight. 

Mill^’’ Jackson had faii^y given up the prize to her 
friend, and touched by Henrietta’s appeal to her 
generosity’, promised to assist her as far as she could in 
carrying on the romantic acquaintanceship they had 
begun together. She stipulated, however, that Henri- 
etta was to hide nothing from her ; she must get any’ 
fun out of it that was going. With an indignant pro- 
test against this matter-of-fact view of her grande pas- 
sion^ Henrietta agreed that, in return for Milly’s 
friendly co-operation, she would treat her with perfect 
frankness. And as far as concerned her meetings with 
the gentleman, she kept her word. But when one day^ 
a letter was brought to her room by the concierge.^ she 
did not think it necessary to expose her treasure to 
Milly’s irreverent observations. She locked her door, 
and sat down to devour the contents of the precious 
missive — her first love-letter, and alas! poor, foolish 
child, her first step towards sorrow’ and guilt, the very 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


95 


name of which would have stricken her to the earth, 
had it been whispered in her ear at that moment. 

But there was no counsellor at hand to warn off the 
tempter, and he had gained too much power now to be 
conquered by the vague foreboding which marred ever 
so slightly the happiness this letter brought her. When 
she had read it till every word had grown into her 
memory, so that she could have repeated the effusion by 
heart it occurred to her that she must answer it, — in 
French of course ; her lover did not understand English. 
Oh ! how it mortified her to be obliged to put into lame 
ungraceful French, the feelings she could have ex- 
pressed so fluently in her own language. Would he 
laugh at her blunders, he who wrote so exquisitely him- 
self? Henrietta shuddered at the thought. Yet she 
could ask no one to help her. Milly spoke French 
much better than she did, and would, no doubt, be 
delighted to help her as far as she could, “just for the 
fun of it.” 

There was profanation in the bare idea ! No, she must 
manage it alone, answering in a few lines the four pages 
of hj’perbolical rhodomontade, to which, in Henrietta’s 
e3'es, all the poetry of Byron was pale and passionless. 

What an incentive she had now to stud}^ ! 

The sudden transition from lazy indifference to inde- 
fatigable zeal surprised and delighted her professors ; 
they attributed it to their own skill, and the exhorta- 
tions the}^ never spared to incite their pupils’ industry ; 
and happy had it been for the infatuated girl, had her 
newly- awakened energy sprung from no other cause. 
She studied with an ardor that astonished her compan- 
ions. “What has come over Henrietta?” was the 
constant inquiiy, as they*noticed the feverish excite- 
ment that seemed spurring her on through the mazes of 
analyse., rhetorique., and style epistolaire. Their aston- 
ishment would have been still greater if they could 
have seen her poring over her books night after night, 
when every soul in the house was fast asleep. Milly 
had joked her on the absurdit}' of bothering her head 
about such stuff, and wanted to know why she had been 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


96 

/ 

seized with a studying fit. “ Study kills thought,” was 
the sententious replj’. 

“I thought they called rhetoric ‘ I’art de penser,’” 
Mill}^ retorted ; ‘ ‘ besides, I fancied your thoughts were 
too pleasant to want to be killed just now ; mais je ne 
me connais pas dans le sentiment.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


97 


CHAPTER XI. 



IHE schism between the followers of Mr. Brown 


JL had terminated as proposed b}’ some of the Low 
Church part3', in their going to the Catholic Church, 
accompanied by a sous-maitresse^ or occasionally b}^ 
Mademoiselle Eugenie. 

To the greater number, the ceremonies represented 
some superstitious idea, which they neither tried nor 
cared to understand ; the music was beautiful, the ser- 
mon preached in excellent French, and the whole formed 
a pleasing contrast to the cold monotonj' of their own 
service. If they had consulted their parents on the 
propriety of thus frequenting regularly a temple of 
Catholic worship, the proceeding would undoubtedly 
have been forbidden, as both dangerous and unedifying ; 
but the 3^oung ladies contented themselves with their 
own consent ; and Sunday after Sunday, some five or 
six of them were to be seen at High Mass, or the after- 
noon service of Vespers and Benediction, according to 
the convenience of their chaperon. There was hardly 
one of them wLo, in England, would have been seen 
standing under the portico of a Catholic church ; but 
abroad it was different ; thej^ went to hear a good 
French sermon, and see the pretty pageant, in which 
wax-lights and fiowers were the principal performers. 
To most of them the pageant told no other tale ; they 
listened to the prone as the}" would have listened to 
a prologue at the theatre, or a lecture at the College 
de France ; there were, however, a few on whose ear 
the words of the preacher fell with a deeper meaning, ' 
and who saw in the mysterious rites of the altar some- 
thing more solemn, more divine, than a mere out- 
ward ceremonial. Some there were who came away 


7 


98 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


full of longings to know more of the faith which took 
their soul by storm, while their reason stood armed 
against it. 

Miss Jones had gone once to High Mass at Notre 
Dame. She was too firm in her own belief to be shaken 
in it bj' controversy, however able, and too calml}- un- 
impressionable to allow external circumstances to influ- 
ence her inward convictions ; but her judgment told her 
how much danger there must be in such scenes to 
oth'ers, 3’ounger, more ardent, more imaginative than 
herself. She warned her pupils against frequenting the 
Catholic churches, urging them to write, at least, and 
consult their parents on the subject. The}^ laughed, 
for the most part, at her unnecessary alarm, and went 
their own wa}’, quite satisfied it was the right one. 

Mabel Stanhope went occasionally to St. Eoch, or 
the Madeleine, when an unusually eloquent preacher 
was announced, and Miss Jones, fancjdng she knew the 
strength of her religious convictions, saw less danger 
for her than for any of the others. 

Since she had been ill, Mabel had spent ever3^ spare 
moment beside her. There had been much heart com- 
munion between the two during that time of trial for 
the one, and ministering charity for the other. Often, 
during the long hours of the night, when Miss Jones lay 
still and wakeful, fancTing her nurse was fast asleep, 
Mabel was w'atching, wakeful as herself, and at the 
lightest sign or sound from the sufl:erer, would glide 
noiseless as a shadow to the bedside. When pain kept 
Miss Jones from sleeping, Mabel w’ould draw her chair 
close to the bed, and talk, and try by every gentle artifice 
to distract her friend, till sometimes they both dropped 
off asleep, one talking, the other listening. It happened 
somehow that the subject of revealed belief w'as never 
dwelt on between them. The 3’oung girl shrank from 
it with a vague dread that she could not account for ; 
Miss Jones from a feeling of reverence which made the 
handling of sacred things out of the pulpit, except in 
prayer, seem to her a kind of profanation. She liked 
to hear the Bible read to her, and would comment on 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


99 


texts and parables in a simple, reverent way ; but the 
question of revelation, and the interpretation of its 
mysteries, she never touched upon. Her heart was 
at rest in its child-like faith, and no doubt troubled its 
contentment. 

But the young spirit beside her had lost that blissful 
tranquillity. The foundations on which Mabel’s peace 
had rested were shaken ; trust in the divine authority 
of her own church had gone ; her soul was hungering 
for truth, and where was she to find it? Gould the 
Church of Rome, after all, be the true one? This ques- 
tion, these doubts, were in one form or another perpet- 
ually recurring to her mind. If she had looked into her 
own heart, she would have seen that this it was which 
made her shrink so sensitively from approaching the 
subject with Miss Jones. 

‘‘I cannot feel as she does, and why should I pain 
her by talking of my own feelings, when she could 
neither understand them, nor set my mind at rest?” 
Mabel often said mentally. Had Miss Jones been a 
shrewd observer, she must have noticed that a change 
was gradually stealing over the girl whose S5"mpathy 
had been to her like sunshine to the frozen sparrow ; 
but the good soul no more heeded it than she did the 
wrinkles growing day by day deeper on her own face. 

Four weeks had glided past since she had been trans- 
ferred from the attic to her pupil’s room. She had 
suffered cruelly, and was still so enfeebled as to be 
incapable of the least exertion ; but all danger was past, 
and she looked forward to being able in a few days to 
appear at her old seat in the school-room, and resume 
her labors, so reluctantly interrupted. 

Madame St. Simon had inquired for Miss Jones 
every day at dinner with punctilious civility. She had 
taken the trouble of going herself several times to as- 
certain personall}^ how the invalid was going on, and 
had been particularly gracious to Mabel. 

“ Fame bonne mine a mauvais Jeu,” was a maxim she 
practised with a skill and tact that m^^ny a diplomatist 
might have envied. Meanwhile, her great pre-occupa- 


100 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


tioii was how to find a plausible excuse for getting rid 
of Miss Jones. 

There was no likelihood of the poor teacher’s furnish- 
ing one by an}' irregularity in the discharge of her duty. 
She would work while she could stand. To turn her 
back into the pigeon-hole she had formerly occupied, 
after going through such an illness as she was emerging 
from, was not possible. Allow her to remain in Miss 
Stanhope’s room, Madame St. Simon would not. It 
was against the rules, and her having tolerated it so 
long was an infringement on them that she attributed 
to her tender consideration for Miss Jones, and her 
wish to gratify Mabel. Both w'ere duped by the appar- 
ent kindness of the mistress. They believed her sin- 
cere in her expressions of regard for Miss Jones, and 
admiration for the devotedness of her young friend. 
When the latter was summoned one morning to an 
audience in the sanctum sanctorum^ she presented her- 
self before its smiling priestess with less trepidation 
than she bad ever felt under the trial before. 

“ Ma petite, I w'ant to have a little conversation with 
you on a matter that interests us both.” Madame St. 
Simon closed her portfolio, and taking Mabel by the 
hand drew her to her side on the sofa. 

“ Monsieur Royer tells me that Miss Jones is so far 
convalescent as to be able to go out to-morrow, if the 
day be fine. He says that she ow'es her re(?overy more 
to your care than to his. I know how true this is, dear 
child, and Miss Jones herself cannot be more grateful 
to you than I am ; but the time is come when I can no 
longer allow your privacy to be trespassed on, and your 
generosity abused.” Mabel looked up in wondering 
inquiry. “ In suffering Miss Jones to remain so long 
an intruder on you,” Madame St. Simon continued, “I 
yielded to the impulse of my heart, against every pro- 
test of my judgment. Unfortunately, there was no room 
vacant which I could have given to our invalid, or I 
should never have been guilty of such a breach of my 
duty towards you.” 

“ Towards me, Madame? ” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


101 


“Yes, towards you, in allowing you to breathe at 
night an air so unwholesome as to be almost poisonous 
to one in health. I fear my imprudence has already 
told upon you, chere enfant, although Monsieur Royer 
assured me from the first there was not the shadow of 
danger in allowing 3^011 to remain together.” 

Monsieur Royer had assured her of nothing of the 
kind ; she had never said a word on the subject to him, 
be\’ond asking if the fever was contagious, or likely to 
become so. It was an idea that just struck her at the 
moment, suggested perhaps by the delicate pallor of 
the fair cheek she was caressing so a^fectionatel3^ 

“ But, Madame, Miss Jones will fall ill again if she 
goes back to her old room,” Mabel urged, taking no 
notice of the motherly anxietv expressed on her own 
account; “she is still very weak, and suffers a great 
deal at times ; the rheumatic pains in her back are 
quite dreadful towards evening.” 

“I do not intend that she shall return to her former 
room. For the present she can have a bed in the 
dormitory ; the weather is now so mild there is no risk 
in her making the change.” 

“ But I am sure there is, Madame,” the 3'Oung girl 
pleaded; “indeed there is; and it is not the least 
inconvenience to me having Miss Jones to share m3^ 
room. It would look so unkind to let her go into the 
dormitoiy, when she is not the least in m3^ wa3\” 

Madame St. Simon shook her head. 

“It cannot be. What would 3^our dear mother sa3^ 
if she knew I had allowed it? Yon do not understand 
the fisk, and many other reasons that make such an 
arrangement impossible. All that I can do to make 
Miss Jones comfortable, be assured I will do. Later, I 
hope to raise the roof at this end of the house, and 
make some changes in the upper rooms that will enable 
Miss Jones to return to hers ; for the present she must 
sleep in the dormitoiy.” 

“ Then, dear Madame St. Simon,” pleaded Mabel,- 
taking the Frenchwoman’s smooth hand in her own 
two, “grant me one favor; since 3’ou cannot allow 


102 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Miss Jones to stay with me, let me arrange the little 
room upstairs so that she can occupy it. I will buy a 
small stove, and a carpet, and a curtain for the win- 
dow ; and with a good fire she would be comfortable in 
it, even as it is. You know I always have more 
pocket-money than I know what to do with, and it will 
be so kind of you to let me spend some of it on Miss 
Jones ; it may be the means of saving her life.” 

Had Mabel Stanhope been a little more versed in 
worldly wisdom, and the w^ays and Mundings of self- 
love, she might have gained her cause with Madame St. 
Simon. As it was she lost it. Her generosity was 
too stinging a reproach to her superior’s stinginess, and 
that final allusion to saving Miss Jones’s life gave 
the death-blow to her last chance of success. The 
sallow features grew as stony as the cameo that fas- 
tened the hard linen collar under the sharp chin. 
Madame St. Simon withdrew her hand from her pupil’s, 
and said haughtily : — 

“You take a strange libert}", Mademoiselle, in ofiTer- 
ing charit}^ to a person in my emplo3’ment. I do not 
require 3- our assistance to furnish m3^ house. It is just 
now impossible for me to begin the improvements I 
intend making later ; Miss Jones must therefore share 
the sleeping-apartment of her pupils and fellow- 
teachers. You ma3^ make known my intention at once 
to her ; she must leave your room to-morrow.” 

Mabel dared not trust herself to speak ; she would 
only injure Miss Jones b3^ an3^ outburst of indignation, 
and further entreaty was useless, if she could have 
stooped to offer it. 

“Cruel, heartless woman!” muttered the 3’oung 
girl, as the door of the elegant boudoir closed behind 
her, “ I ’d not sta3^ here another hour if I could help 
it.” 

With this indignant exclamation, Mabel w'ent to 
deliver her unwelcome new^s to Miss Jones. 

“ M3" sweet Mabel, you are veiy unjust to Madame 
St. Simon,” was the reproof that met her angiy com- 
ment on the message ; “I only wonder she has allowed 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


103 


me to remain here so long ; it was a most unexpected 
condescension, -and lean never thank her enough for 
it ; you, I do not attempt to thank.” 

“ I ’d never forgive you if you did ; but I cannot see 
the semblance of a reason for sending 3’ou to the dor- 
mitory, unless that woman wants to freeze you to 
death, which* she very nearly succeeded in doing up ^ 
in the attic.” 

Miss Jackson walked in without the preliminaiy of 
knocking. 

“ What’s the matter, Mab? you look as mournful as 
a magpie ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ I’m going to write to papa, and tell him to come 
over by return of post and take me awa}". I ’ll grow 
too wicked if I stay an}^ longer near that bad-hearted 
woman.” 

“ Miss Jones? ” cried Milly, with three sharps in the 
note of interrogation. 

“Juno, you absurd Milly; she’s a bad, selfish, un- 
feeling woman, and I mean to write home ever}^ word 
of her conduct.” 

“ And so get Miss Jones turned out of doors,” said 
the governess, taking the flushed face between her 
hands, and gazing with tenderness into the moist, 
flashing ej^es. 

“ Yes, that 3'ou would,” said Mill}’, with an expres- 
sive nod. 

“ Promise me, Mabel, that 3’on will not say one w’ord 
about me in your letters that could injure Madame 
St. Simon,” said Miss Jones, “ and that 3’ou will not 
make her conduct towards me a reason for leaving a 
da}’ sooner than 3’our parents wish. Will 3’ou promise 
me this?” 

“ If 3’ou insist upon it.” 

“ I cio. It would bring no good to any one, and to 
me positiv’e harm. Believe me, 3’ou exaggerate my 
grievances. I accepted the terms offered me ; Ma- 
dame St. Simon onl}’ stands on her bargain ; it was 
fairly made.” 

“ So was Shy lock’s.” 


104 ^ ' MABEL STANHOPE. 

■ ' 1 ^ 

. “ Wh}’, I thought you and Juno were as loving as'' 
turtle-doves,” observed Milh% puzzled at her compan- 
ion’s angry tone towards their mistress. “ Has n’t she 
been all benevolence to Miss Jones since her illness? ” 

“Yes, and I was unsopthisticated enough to believe 
in it,” replied Mabel, bitterly. 

They w'ere interrupted by the portress, who came to 
say Miss Jones was wanted au parloir to receive some 
English visitors. This dut}^ as well as answering and 
translating English letters, devolved on the English 
governess. 

The visitors to-day were a lady and gentleman, who 
wished to place their daughter at a French school, and 
to whom Belle-Vue had been recommended by a friend 
whose daughter was already there. 

Miss Browning was a regular boarder, dining in the 
refectoiy, and sleeping in the dormitory. Mrs. Sharp 
had asked to see her ; but on inquiry it was found she 
had been taken to the dentist’s. The Sharps were 
disappointed ; the}- fancied this young lad}" would be 
more likely to give them satisfactory particulars about 
the kind of food supplied in the refectory, and other 
important details, than they could get from one of the 
teachers. 

Miss Jones showed them over the establishment ; she 
called their attention to the cleanliness and order 
everywhere visible, the brightness of the polished floors, 
the snowy whiteness of the counterpanes in the dormi- 
tory. She made the most of every favorable point, and 
praised the school, as far as she could do so consist- 
ently with truth. 

“I have no doubt the teaching is flrst-rate, and all 
that sort of thing,” observed Mr. Sharp, “but I want 
to hear something about the feeding. What kind of 
food do you give the young ones?” 

“ They seem to thrive on it,” replied Miss Jones, 
evasively, “ and I don’t think Madame St. Simon hears 
complaints from the parents. Children don’t feel 
hungry without crying out.” 

“I didn’t ask if they were starved,” retorted the 


■ : ' MABEL STANHOPE. ' 105 

gentleman, stiffly, “ I asked what kind of food they 
got. Do you give them plent}^ of roast beef and 
mutton 

“ I must inform .you,” said Miss Jones, addressing 
Mrs. Sharp, ‘‘ that I am simply a teacher of English 
here, and have no voice whatever in the domestic 
arrangements.' I dine in the refectoiy, and share the 
meals of the regular pupils. The parlor-boarders 
breakfast and dine with Madame.” 

“ Tell me frankly, then, since you are an indepen- 
dent authority, whether 3'ou consider the living whole- 
some and sufficient!}' strengthening for growing girls 
and accustomed to plain, solid English food.” 

Miss Jones colored. “ I would rather you asked 
those questions of Madame St. Simon,” she replied. 

“ I entreat you as a favor,” urged the lady, laying 
her hand on Miss Jones’s arm, “ to answer my question. 
You have m3' word that whatever you sa}’ shall be 
sacred. You can understand 1113'^ anxiet}' in leaving 
m3' children at so great a distance ; I want to know 
whether in sacrificing my own feelings I am not risking 
their health.” 

Miss Jones was embarrassed and distressed, but 
made no answer. 

“ Just tell me this,” put in Mr. Sharp, “ do 3’ou get 
roast meat eveiy da}' ? ” 

“No.” 

“ On Sunda3's? ” 

“ Oftener than that.” 

“ Twice a week? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ What do they give 3'ou the rest of the time? ” 

“ Fricandeau, or ragout, sometimes, but generallv 
boiled beef.” 

'‘^Houilli^ which means boiled rags.” 

“ And what do you get to drink?” 

“Wine and water,” replied Miss* Jones, growing 
ver}' nervous. 

“ One part wine, three parts vinegar, four parts 
water.” Mr. Sharp looked at his wife. “My good 


106 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


lad}^” he said, “ it appears to me that learning may be 
a good thing, but one may pay too high a price for it. 
This French scheme won’t do.” 

‘ ‘ Could you not place your daughters here as parlor- 
boarders?” asked Miss Jones, painfully agitated, and 
feeling like a traitor. 

“ That is an amendment that would suit my paternal 
conscience very well,” replied Mr. Sharp; “but as I 
have eight more pinafores at home, I cannot afford to 
pa}’ three hundred a year for two ; I suppose it would 
be about that?” 

“ At least,” replied Miss Jones. 

“ M}’ dear,” observed the gentleman to his wife, “ we 
must manage to let the young ones ‘ parler frangsay ’ 
b}* some less expensive process.” 

“ We might speak to Madame St. Simon about it, at 
all events,” answered the lad}’; “it seems such a pity 
the dear children should not have the advantage of a 
year’s continental finish. It improves young people so 
much,” — appealing to the governess. 

Miss Jones had her own notions on that point ; but 
she said nothing. 

“ My good lady,” protested Mr. Sharp, “ if our ten 
daughters turn out as learned and as good as their 
mother, they ’ll be ten times too good for the best man 
in the realm.” 

Miss Jones allowed that an Englishwoman wanted 
no foreign polish to make her perfect in every good 
quality ; still, there was no denying that the Continent 
was very improving. 

“ I don’t believe in the Continent,” snapped Mr. 
Sharp, “it’s a good place for wearing out one’s old 
clothes, that’s all.” He had never shared this fancy 
of his wife’s, and the result of his cross-questioning 
had considerably strengthened his previous prejudices. 
“ I am very much indebted to you. Madam,” he added 
to Miss Jones, “ for the frankness with which you have 
answered my questions.” 

“ I fear Madame St. Simon has reason to be less so,” 
remarked the governess. 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


107 


“ She shall never know from me (;lirectly or indirectly 
a word of what has passed between us ; you have the 
word of an Englishman.” 

Mr. Sharp held out his hand to Miss Jones, and gave 
hers a hearty shake. “ You will tell her from me,” he 
added, “ that I have not made up my mind what to do 
about this schooling business, — which is the truth; I 
expect I’ll have to import a French Mademoiselle to 
manage the pinafores, — ten pinafores. Madam ! How- 
ever I promised Browning that I ’d just look over this 
place, and I’ve done it, and very much obliged to 3’ou 
for 3’our politeness in doing us the honors.” 

“ Will you do me the favor to see Madame St. Simon, 
and tell her this yourself ? ” requested Miss Jones ; 
“ she knows enough of English to understand 3^011, 
though she can neither speak nor read it.” 

“ Certainl3% if 3^ou prefer it; though I own I would 
rather have shirked an interview with the lad3\ I can 
speak the language as well as an3" of them when I ’m at 
home ; but somehow they don’t take it in here ; the3" ’re 
not used to our accent, 3'Ou see.” 

Miss Jones agreed that it was very odd, the difficulty 
one found in getting French people to understand their 
own tongue, when one took eveiy pains to make it in- 
telligible, talking twice as loud as in English, and using 
the best words in the dictionary. She repeated the 
consolator3" assurance that Madame St. Simon knew 
enough of English to save Mr. Sharp from having to 
commit himself in French, and then reconducted them 
to the parlor door. 


108 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XII. 


HE change from Mabel Stanhope’s comfortable 



X room to the dormitory was a severe trial to an 
invalid still as weak and ailing as Miss Jones ; but she 
bore it bravely, making light of the discomfort, and jest- 
ingly reproaching Mabel for having spoiled her by too 
much luxury and indulgence. She resumed her duties in 
the school, giving her four hours of lessons, and taking 
her surveillance in turn with the other teachers. She 
was not 3’et strong enough to take the English girls for 
their daily walk, so Mademoiselle Eugenie relieved her 
from that part of her dut3^ Her evenings were spent 
in the salle d' etude. Soon after the first tea-party, Ma- 
dame St. Simon had forbidden her going to the parlor- 
boarders’ rooms, under pretence that her presence there 
was an encouragement to the j'oung ladies to speak 
English ; thus even the genial cup of tea had long ago 
been given up, and there were few small sacrifices more 
painful to Miss Jones than this. While she conned 
her idioms in the school-room, cold, and comparatively’’ 
hungry, the parlor-boarders were sipping their tea in 
delicious comfort, listening meanwhile to a novel which 
each one took in turn to read aloud. 

By w'ay^ of compensation for their disobedience in 
constantly talking English, they refrained from English 
books, and were guided chiefly’ by Mademoiselle Eu- 
genie in their selection of French ones. “The My’S- 
teries of Paris ” was their first introduction to Eugene 
Sue ; and after that, most of his works helped to wile 
away^ the winter evenings. George Sand and Dumas 
contributed largely to the stock of useful knowledge 
thus gained, dazzling by the brilliancy’ of their gifted 
pens these young and innocent girls, fresh from 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


109 


the pure atmosphere of English homes. Their total 
ignorance of vice served as a shield to ward off many 
a fatal blow at purity and principle ; but who dare say 
that many a drop of the deadly poison did not sink into 
their hearts? The stories were terribly fascinating, 
decked in the glittering plumage that genius can lend 
to vice. 

Mabel Stanhope was not one of the favored hearers 
of these edifying readings. There was not 'a more pop- 
ular girl in the school, yet, somehow, her presence was 
often felt to be a restraint. Her companions went to 
her fast enough when they were in trouble, but there 
was something in the clear light of those hazel e3'es 
that made levity or falsehood shrink. They let her 
into all their scrapes and tricks, when there was noth- 
ing in them to blush for, no underhand meanness or 
selfishness that would pain or injure others, and Mabel 
enjoj^ed the fun as much as any’ one ; but they did not 
care to let her know the kind of books they were 
reading. Had the romances that captivated their 
imaginations been written in English, the words would 
have burned their tongues from very shame ; but 
the fact of the language being a foreign one threw 
a sort of mistiness over the reality of the descrip- 
tions, and stood like a veil between the picture and 
their gaze. 

The culprits felt that Mabel Stanhope could not have 
endured the sight were the curtain ten times as thick ; 
the cloud that sheltered their less truthful eyes, w'ould 
have scalded hers like smoke. So she passed her even- 
ings alone ; studying or reading such books as she 
might have read before her mother. She missed Miss 
Jones sorely^ A month had passed since they^ had 
unwillingly dissolved partnership, and their only meet- 
ings now were during recreation, in the cloisters or the 
garden, or during an occasional w^alk out. 

The parlor-boarders seldom condescended to join the 
noisy group in the play’-ground ; it was considered 
rather infra dig. for the demoiselles en chambres to 
join the romps and games of the pensionnaires^ many’ 


no 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


of whom were their seniors in 3’ears, and general^ far 
more advanced in book-learning than the occupants of 
the dark corridor. 

It was a bright sunn}" da}^ in the beginning of March, 
and the scene in the garden was as bright and pleasant 
as the da}" itself. The school had just turned out for 
the hour’s play and idleness that came between din- 
ner and the classes des professeurs. The elder ones 
fell into groups, walking arm in arm up and down 
under the naked trees that stretched out their gray 
branches in the sun, with a green bud peeping out 
here and there. 

Les mioches^ as dignified fourteen and sixteen called 
the younger portion of the flock, were shouting and 
jumping in a way that might be amicable for the mo- 
ment, but was unsatisfactory if the effervescence lasted 
long. The question at issue was, what game was to be 
played ? Cries of colin-maillard^ cache-cache^ crapaud^ 
with mingled cheers and clapping of hands, rose high 
and shrill from the young debaters. 

Suddenly they stopped, and rushed one and all to the 
garden door, rending the air with cries of, “ Vive Mon- 
sieur I’Abbe ! bon jour. Monsieur TAbbe ! ” 

There he stood in his black soutane^ tow-ering above 
the baby forms that swarmed around him, clinging to 
his gown, pulling him by the sleeve, and taking all 
manner of liberties with his venerable person, bold and 
fearless, as it is the privilege of childhood to be with 
virtue and austere holiness. They were more in awe of 
the gentlest of their mistresses than of this white-haired 
priest. Self-denying austerity was stamped on his 
brow, but the children felt, with the true instinct of 
childhood, that the severity was all for himself, the be- 
nign gentleness for them. His presence among them 
was like the visit of a father ; they reverenced him, as 
far as their nature was capable of reverence, but they 
had not learned to fear him. 

The elder pupils, with a nearer approach to courtesy 
than was visible in their manner to any other superior, 
came to say hon jour to the chaplain. He had a kind 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Ill 


word for each of them, but his weakness was for the 
little ones. 

When their garrulous greeting had subsided into 
comparative quiet, the old man suggested they should 
go on with the game he had interrupted. 

“ Non, non. Monsieur I’Abbe, a story, we want a 
story ! ’’ 

It was his habit, when he came to see them during 
the fine weather, to gather them round his knee, and 
tell them some story from sacred or profane history, 
which the3" listened to with delight ; invariably asking, 
before the tale began, “Is it true. Monsieur I’Abbe?” 
But to-da}^ it was too cold to sit down out of doors, 
so the Chaplain proposed their running a race instead. 
He drew from his pocket-book a small picture, repre- 
senting the Madonna holding the divine infant in her 
arms, and held up the image, with its delicate lace 
border, before the wistful eyes of the children, exclaim- 
ing, “ Suppose we run for this ; will any one try to win 
it?” 

“ Oh, oui, moi, et moi, et moi ! ” came from a dozen 
voices. 

They scampered off to the gate, which was to serve 
as their starting-point. 

Monsieur I’Abbe ranged the young competitors side 
by side, and clapping his hands three times, gave the 
signal to start. 

Miss Jones and Mabel stood to look at the children 
as they took their flight like a covey of partridges. 

“ Quel joli tableau ! ” exclaimed the Abbe. 

“ Yes, they are very happy,” murmured Mabel. 

“What have 3^011 to env3" them, my child?” asked 
the Chaplain, turning his keen glance on her. 

“ Peace,” she answered in a low voice. 

Miss Jones started ; Mabel would have given a great 
deal to call back the word which had escaped from her 
unguardedly ; but it was too late. 

Happily, or it may be^unhappily, her embarrassment 
was relieved, and an}’ explanation avoided b}^ the advent 
of the portress with letters. 


112 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


She handed one to Mabel. 

It was no unnsual thing, as w^e have seen, for Miss 
Jones to be sent for when the English post arrived, and 
yet her breath came quicker, when the woman said, 
“ Madame vons demande, Mees.” 

She followed her, and left Mabel devouring her 
mother’s letter. 

If Miss Jones faltered a moment at the door of the 
council-chamber with a vague feeling of apprehension, 
the reception she met with set her fears at rest. 

Madame St. Simon was seated at her writing-table, 
scanning carefully, and with evident satisfaction, a list 
of names, with a figure opposite each. It was the list 
of contributions from the pupils towards purchasing for 
the mistress a present on her/e^e. 

The said present was always supposed to be une 
surprise., although every 3’ear it was a matter of much 
discussion between Madame St. Simon and the sous- 
mattresses — admitted on this occasion to the confidence 
of their Superior — how the money thus raised was to 
be spent. 

Most of the drawing-room furniture and that of 
Madame’s boudoir had been levied in this wa}^ 

The mistress of the first class, it was believed, had 
adroitly extracted from her emplo3’er what trifle she 
would most willingl3^ accept from her loving pupils. 
The article was bought b3' Madame herself, accom- 
panied by Madame Laurence, and when the da3' arrived, 
the surprise was placed in the drawing-room, where 
the 3'oung ladies, dressed in their Sunda3' uniform, pre- 
sented it to Madame St. Simon in a prett3^ speech 
composed b3’ the premiere en rhetorique. 

The astonishment and ok>tendrissement of the lady^ 
were invariabl3" touching to witness. She embraced 
her cheres enfmxts. protesting that she was never more 
surprised in her life. It was just the very thing she 
had been wishing for. How could they have guessed it? 

The day was drawing near on which this annual 
comed3’’ was to be pla3’ed over again. The subscription 
list had been sent round to pupils and teachers. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


113 


Madame St. Simon distinct^ refused to accept less 
than ten francs from an}" one ; so the sous-maitr esses 
with twelve or fifteen pounds a year, and the English 
governess with nothing, were obliged to submit to the 
yearly tax, or bear from their Superior such signs of 
gracious good-will as she knew how to bestow. 

Miss Jones had given ten francs like the rest, and it 
was the sight of her name on the list that won for her 
the cordial “ bon jour; chere Mees,” which banished her 
uneasiness on entering the room. 

Madame St. Simon did not know that it was the last 
of her little income of ten pounds, which served to 
dress the teacher, and defray the chance expenses of 
her self-denying life. 

Miss Jones had asked Mabel Stanhope if she could 
advance her a little money, in case she should want it 
before her own came due, and the young girl, of course, 
readily agreed to it, urging in vain Miss Jones to accept 
a five-pound note at once. 

“ Half my year’s income ! What should I want with 
such a sum?” Miss Jones had replied. 

“ Well, I shall not touch it,” said Mabel, “till your 
money comes ; so if you -want it, there it is.” 

There were two letters to be translated, and Madame 
St. Simon handed them to Miss Jones, that she might 
first read them over to herself. 

The first was from an English tradesman, solicit- 
ing the honor of supplying coals to the establishment 
of Belle- Vue. He hinted at the possibility of send- 
ing his daughter Araminta to be finished off there, 
in case Madame St. Simon favored him with her 
patronage. 

Miss Jones smiled at this characteristic epistle, 
and having satisfied herself that she could . render 
it in tolerable French, proceeded to open the second 
letter. 

On looking at the signature she gave an involuntary 
start, — “ Bessy Sharp.” It was from one of Mr. 
Sharp’s pinafores to her friend Mary Browning. This 
was Bessy’s letter : — 


8 


114 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Dearest Mary, — We arrived at home only a few days 
ago, or you should have heard from me sooner. Such a 
beautiful tour as we have had! — although we only stayed 
three days in that most enchanting of cities, Paris. How I 
envy you, living there! London looks so dull, and English- 
men so slow and awkward, after those bewitching French- 
men, with their mustaches that make them all look like 
brigands. How awfully sorry Belinda and I are that pa 
did n’t put us to the same school with you ! But he was 
frightened at what the English governess told him about 
the food you get, and so forth. Indeed, you must be half- 
starved, — which I lament deeply to think of. Still, I should 
have endured “ boiled rags,” — as pa calls your French beef, 
— to have reaped for a time the harvest of learning you can- 
not fail to acquire among the most accomplished nation in 
the world. 

Adieu, dearest Mary. Write soon to your devoted and 
attached 

Bessy Sharp. 

Miss Jones read the letter three times over ; there 
stood the words, in horrible relief upon the rose-colored 
paper, glaring at her like a death-warrant. Was ever 
sentence more cruelly dealt than this? She must de- 
• nounce herself, knowing for a certainty that the denun- 
ciation would throw her houseless, breadless, friendless, 
on the world. She might have saved herself b}' pass- 
ing over the damning passage ; Madame St. Simon 
never looked at the letters, once the}^ had been trans- 
lated to her. But the truthful woman cast this tempta- 
tion from her with, calm and brave determination. No, 
she had done her dutj’ towards God and her fellow’- 
man ; she would not betray it now by a cowardly 
deceit. 

A much longer time elapsed than was necessary for 
the perusal of the letters, and still Miss Jones stood 
with the open paper in her hand. 

Madame St. Simon called out, without looking up 
from her account-book, “ Voyons ! quelles nouvelles 
d’outre-manche ? ” 

Miss Jones approached her emplo3’er, and in a voice 
that played false to the steady purpose in her heart, 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


115 


|I, replied, “ This is an application from a tradesman, 
■ji. soliciting 3’our patronage ; and the other is from the 
daughter of Mrs. Sharp to Miss Browning. Which shall 
I read first ? ” 

The poor teacher put the question with a shadowy 
hope that Madame St. Simon, as it sometimes hap- 
pened, might refuse to hear the 3'oung lady’s letter, 
! under pretext of being pressed for time. Besides 
holding those interesting effusions in contempt. Miss 
Jones’s translation was a severe trial to her nerves ; 
and when there was a plausible excuse for so doing, 
she would cut it short. But Miss Jones’s star was low 
in the horizon just now. The lady had apparentl3^ 
time enough to spare, and replied eagerl3^, “ Celle de la 
petite Sharp.” 

She had been greatl3" anno3^ed at seeing the two 
3’oung ladies escape her, especiall3’ on becoming aware 
that there were eight more in the rear, as Mr. Sharp 
had taken pains to make her understand. She fell 
back in her fauteitil., and summoned all her gravity to 
undergo the coming ordeal. Then it was that, fixing 
her keen eye upon Miss Jones, she saw how pale and 
agitated the governess looked. 

“ Qu’avez-vous ? ” she inquired uneasil3". 

} Miss Jones supported herself against the wall, and 
^ without noticing the question, said in as firm a voice as 
she could command, “ Madame, I have now been 
; ■ , eight months in 3^our service ; you have had an oppor- 
j. , tunit3' of forming a correct opinion of my character and 
r m3’’ principles. I ma3" not have been fortunate enough 
y. to win 3' our affec — friend — sympathy, but I am con- 
I scious of a claim to 3’'our respect.” She paused, in 
hopes of some sign or word of encouragement. 

Madame St. Simon bowed her acquiescence with a 
look that was expressive enough of astonishment, but 
of no more genial emotion. 

■ ^ “ Have 3"Ou ever found me guilt3’’ of a falsehood? ” 

‘ “ Never.” 

v;; “ Do 3"ou believe me capable of a falsehood? ” 


116 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ Then if it should come to pass that I must choose 
between a sacrifice of truth or of j^our interest, 3"OU 
would not expect me to hesitate?” 

The stare grew colder, and the lips a degree more 
rigid. “ I should expect you to do your duty by me 
while 3'OU ate of m}' bread.” 

“ I have never failed in my dut}^ to you, as far as I 
know it, so help me Heaven ! But a^day came when I 
had to choose between it and my dutj^ to God, and — 
I was true to my conscience ! ” 

“What are these periphrases about?” cried Madame 
St. Simon, her green eyes fiashing ; “ what do 3^011 mean 
me to understand? You must be dead to every sense 
of justice and honest3’, if, under cover of Puritanical 
fastidiousness, 3^011 have betrayed m3' interests.” 

Miss Jones shook her head, but made no repl3'. 

“Let me have an end of this m3'stification. How 
does it bear on the letter in 3'our hand ? Translate it ; 
word for word, remember. I shall have it read by 
another person ; and if I detect an3' trickeiy, — gare a 
vous ! ” 

This last insult gave back to Miss Jones all her 
wavering courage. Instead of stuttering out an indig- 
nant retort, more ludicrous in her dislocated French 
than impressive, she looked for a moment with calm 
defiance at the excited woman, who, in spite of her 
power, felt humbled before the penniless dependent ; 
there was the majest3' of truth — something, perhaps, 
of the mart3T’s halo — shining from that pale, wan 
face. She might have saved herself ly a subterfuge 
too guileless to be called a lie ; she had only to be 
silent ; but rather than sully her pure standard of 
Christian truth hy the unspoken falsehood, she would 
cast herself afloat in theVlark, dark night of povert3', in 
a strange land, — without a penny, a prospect, or a 
friend. Calmly, in a voice strong with the strength of 
A'ictor3", Miss Jones began the letter at the beginning, 
and read it to the end. 

“You told him my pupils were starved?” Madame 
St. Simon said ver3' quietl3'. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


117 


“No; all that my conscience could say in favor of 
your house, I said. He put direct questions to me 
about the quality and kind of food supplied, and from 
my answers inferred that it was not sufficiently nour- 
ishing.” 

“ You have robbed me of ten pupils,” observed 
Madame St. Simon, with singular coolness ; her excite- 
ment had either spent itself in the first fier}^ ebullition, 
or had been quelled by the deep inward stillness that 
seemed breathed into Miss Jones. “You have robbed 
me of ten pupils ; I shall not reproach you, since your 
conscience does not ; but a servant with a conscience 
so admirably sensitive is a luxury I cannot afford to 
keep. You are free to seek another situation. I trust 
you may find one where your integrity will be duly 
valued.” 

“ When do you wish me to leave?” asked the gov- 
erness. 

“ At once.” 

“I am, as you know, a perfect stranger in Paris; 
will you give me a few days that I may look for a 
lodging?” 

“You should have thought of that in time,” replied 

I Madame St. Simon. 

“I did,” answered Miss Jones with touching gentle- 
ness. The spirit whence she drew her strength for 
duty and for sacrifice faltered at the prospect of hunt- 
!V: ing for a lodging in the great wilderness without, on 
il' credit too. “May I sleep here to-night?” she asked 
I meekly. 

“ No : 3^ou leave my house at once, without holding 
further communication with any one in it, teachers or 
^ pupils ; ” and the pitiless woman pointed sternlj" to the 
door. 

“ God forgive 3^011, Madame St. Simon,” said Miss 
Jones, “ and — God bless you ! ” 

A curse would have stung her emplo3xr less than 
such a blessing. She seemed not to hear it, and taking 
a ten-franc piece out of the subscription-box, handed it 
; to Miss Jones, saying : — 


118 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ I don’t wish to keep this ; you may want it.” 

The governess took it without comment, and left the 
room. 

She went at once to Mabel’s door, and knocked : 
there was no answer ; she opened it, and stood for a 
moment looking round the pleasant little room, where 
she had suffered so much, and been so happy. 

There was the pretty writing-desk in which the young 
girl had put the five-pound note Miss Jones refused. 
She might have opened it, and taken the note, leaving 
a line to tell Mabel she had done so ; the bunch of ke3's 
was lying on the dressing-table (how often Miss Jones had 
lectured her friend on that careless habit !) ; but then 
it might be so long before she could pay back the money. 
Mabel would rather she never should, but that was not 
for her to consider. 

“ And must I go without seeing you again, my own, 
my cherished one ! ” exclaimed Miss Jones, the big 
tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“ No, I must see her once more, bless her, kiss her, 
if we are never to meet again. Madame St. Simon had 
no right to forbid it ; I will see mv darling in spite of 
her ! ” 

She hurried down to the pla5"-ground, expecting to 
find the school still there ; but the stud^^-bell had rung 
without her noticing it, and Mabel, with the other par- 
lor-boarders, was assisting at the examen d’histoire in 
the salle des professeurs. It would last an hour, so 
Miss Jones determined to get read}’ her few things at 
once, and then return to take leave of Mabel. 

But she had reckoned without her host. 

The governess’s trunk was still in the garret-room, 
and had never been emptied for want of a wardrobe. 
Her books and some articles of clotliing in dail}’ use 
were soon packed up, and she came down to the dor- 
mitory to put on her bonnet. 

The long, bleak room, with its double row of bed- 
steads, had a cheerful home-look about it now that it 
had never worn before. Carrying her leather bag on 
her arm, an 4 an alpaca umbrella in her hand, she went 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


119 


down to the cloisters. She had better wait there ; Ma- 
bel might dally about the classes when the lesson was 
over, instead of returning at once to her room. 

Meanwhile the porter had carried down the square, 
black box, and secured it on the fiacre that Madame 
St. Simon had sent for the moment Miss Jones left her 
presence. 

Jeannette met the governess at the foot of the stairs, 
and said, respectfully, — 

“ Tout est pret, Mees.” 

“ What is read}^?” asked Miss Jones in surprise. 

“The cab. Mademoiselle ; if you keep the man wait- 
ing, he will charge you for the hour.’* 

She would have paid the hour if it had taken her soli- 
tary ten-franc piece, rather than go without one last 
sight of her darling ; but the dining-room door opened, 
and Madame St. Simon stood, like her evil fate, upon 
the threshold. 

A kind of despair seized the. unhappy creature. She 
-would face her tyrant like a stag at bay, and rebel against 
this last act of cruelty. “ I wish to see Miss Stanhope 
before I go ; if you allow me, Madame, I shall wait here 
till she passes.” 

“I thought I forbade your speaking to any one in 
my house,” replied the mistress haughtily. 

“This is cruel — this is tyrannical, Madame St. 
Simon ; I will not obey you,” answered Miss Jones. 

“Ah, you think to brave me to the last ! JNous ver- 
rons. Jacques ! ” she cried in a voice as shrill as an 
east wind. “ If you cannot walk alone, I shall have you 
assisted.” 

Good Heavens ! did she mean to turn her out by 
force, like a thief or a drunkard? No servant in the 
house would have raised a finger to Miss Jones; but 
she could not guess that, or knowing it, be beholden to 
their pity to save her from such outrage. With a cry 
of anguish, she clasped her hands, and casting towards 
the salle d' etude a look that seemed as if it must have 
pierced through the closed door, walked past Madame 
St. Simon. 


120 . MABEL STANHOPE. | 

For many a day that cry rang with avenging condem- j 
nation in the stern woman’s ear. 

And so Miss Jones went forth into the busy streets 
of Paris, more lonety to her than a desert, with no soli- 
tary human being to turn to for counsel or protection. 






MABEL STANHOPE. 


121 


CHAPTER XIII. 

M abel stanhope was not the only one who 
regretted Miss Jones, although no one felt her 
loss so keenly. Now that the governess was gone, 
nothing remained but the memory of her goodness and 
gentleness. They remembered how patienth" she had 
alwa3^s borne with their wa^^wardness ; the greed}’ de- 
sire for improvement, which they had ridiculed while 
she was among them, grew pathetic when they looked 
back on the self-den3’ing, unobtrusive industry with 
which Miss Jones had seized every opportunit}^ that 
came in her wa}’. 

There was no explanation given as to the cause of 
her sudden disappearance, except that Madame St. 
Simon had detected her in a gross breach of trust, and 
had requested that Miss Jones’s name might never be 
mentioned in her presence. She spoke more in sorrow 
than in anger, like one who had been pained b}’ some 
unlooked-for deceit in a friend. 

Mabel Stanhope no more doubted Miss Jones’s truth 
and honor than she doubted the sun’s light at mid-da}'^ ; 
but she gave Madame St. Simon credit for sincerit}' 
when she spoke so mildl}^ and with so little anger of her 
late subordinate. Of course it was all a mistake that 
could be cleared away, were Miss Jones allowed to 
speak ; but, apparently, in her indignation at the sup- 
posed breach of trust, Madame St. Simon had dismissed 
the culprit without giving her a chance of justifying 
herself. 

Where had she gone, and how was she living? Mabel 
knew she had given her last franc pour la fete de Ma- 
dame. Had she left the house without a penny in her 
pocket ? 


122 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


At any cost Mabel wished to ascertain this. Taking 
her courage in both hands, as the French sa}", she went 
down to Madame St. Simon’s room. 

“I am going to disobey you, Madame,” she said 
apologetically, ‘ ‘ but I am sure you will forgive me 
when you hear my reason. Yesterday, when Miss 
Jones left, she had not ten francs in her possession. 
She may not have told you so, but I know it for a fact. 
Will you enclose her this,” placing the five-pound note 
in Madame St. vSimon’s hand, “with my love, or let 
me have her address, that 1 ma}^ send it m3’self ? ” 

Madame St. Simon answered, more kindl}^ than Mabel 
had expected, — 

“ Miss Jones did not tell me where she purposed 
going. As to her being without monej", you ma3" be at 
rest on that point. I took care she should not leave 
my house without the means of providing another shel- 
ter, culpable though she was. I have said this much ; 
now remember, 3'ou never mention the subject again.” 

Mabel took back the monej", feeling that an^" further 
remark or question would be useless. 

For days and weeks she hoped every post would 
bring her a letter from Miss Jones ; but weeks, and 
then months passed, and no tidings came. The gov- 
erness had written, of course ; but the letter was never 
allowed to reach her pupil’s hands. She had said ver}’ 
little of herself, speaking chiefi^’ of her regret at not 
seeing her darling before she left, but abstaining from 
an3" reproach against Madame St. Simon. She was 
looking out for lessons, and had alread}^ found one, 
— thanks to Monsieur I’Abbe, whom she had met the 
very day after leaving her old employer. Miss Jones 
did not say that, bad as the living was at Belle-Vue, it 
was luxurious beside her present fare. She did not 
mention either that for the lesson so gratefully accepted 
she was only paid one franc, and that it was an hour’s 
walk from her lodging-house. 

The letter was almost cheerful ; and if Madame St. 
Simon had understood it, she might not, perhaps, have 
destroyed it. By dint of slow and careful reading she 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


'123 

gleaned that Miss Jones was giving lessons. This was 
a relief to her mind ; for somehow since that morn- 
ing's work she had not slept so comfortably. Now that 
she knew that Miss Jones was safe and had found em- 
ployment, she was seized with a desire to assist her by 
some small donation, and thus lull her own scruples to 
sleep forever. She would do a generous deed to atone 
for an unjust one, — the most sensitive conscience could 
not do more. She wrote down Miss Jones’s address. 
Madame St. Simon knew the place well. She had called 
there once to inquire the character of a maid, and by 
some mistake of the portress had been shown into the 
hall leading to the lodgers’ rooms. She recoiled in in- 
surmountable disgust from the staircase that the woman 
told her to ascend, and turned without further inquiry 
from a reality the like of which she could have imagined 
only among savages devoid of the first elements of 
civilization. 

This was the refuge Miss Jones had found ; and Ma- 
dame St. Simon felt it was vengeance enough for every 
w’rong the governess had done her. She folded a 
twenty-franc piece in a sheet of paper, sealed it with 
a wafer, and addressed it with her left hand. Next day 
she drove to the Rue du Gard, and left it with the 
concierge. 

Having so far spread balm on her conscience, 
Madame St. Simon dismissed Miss Jones from her 
thoughts. 


124 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


HE person who replaced the English governess at' 



± Belle-Vue was as great a contrast to her prede- ^ 
cessor as can well be imagined. 

Miss Lavinia Laventine was small and slight, with a 
long neck, and a stoop from her shoulders, which she 
complacently compared to the Grecian bend of the 
Venus de Medici. She had been pretty in her 3’outh, 
and had never forgotten it ; for, though fast fading into 
lift}’, her pretensions to admiration ‘were as high as in 
the sunniest days of her girlhood. 

Miss Lavinia was in fact the very antipodes of Miss 
Jones at all points ; and to her new emplo3’er this was - ^ 
the best recommendation she could have brought. Ma- 
dame St. Simon had learned that an English gentle- 
woman, sensible and well-bred, was not the kind of 
person to suit her house. Miss Lavinia she voted a 
fool on the first glance at her simpering face ; and 
judging from the attempt at fashion and finely in her 
dress, she was likelv^ to be a vain fool. There was no 
Fabrician integrit3’ to be frightened at here. 

“ Mademoiselle, je crois que nous nous conviendrons,” 
was Madame St.* Simon’s conclusion to these mental 
commentaries. 

That evening the new governess was installed in her 
office. She was to sleep in the dormitor3^ and keep the 
garret-room for her wardrobe, — much better stored, 
apparently, than that of poor Miss Jones. 

About a week after her arrival. Miss Lavinia was 
doing surveillance at the solfige lesson. 

Monsieur Beranger, the master, was a fine-looking 
man, with a frizzly black beard, — that looked very 
Italian, the governess thought. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


125 


‘‘What a handsome man ! ” she whispered to Milly 
Jackson. “ I wonder is his wife handsome? ” 

‘ ‘ He has n’t got a wife.” 

“ Law ! what a pit}^ ! ” exclaimed Miss Lavinia com- 
passionately. 

“He’s looking out for one,” observed Miss Jackson 
confidentially. 

“ You don’t sa}" so! Well, I hope he’ll get a nice 
one. I’m sure he’d make a delightful husband. I do 
admire a dark man ! ” 

“ Mademoiselle Meely, a votre tour,” interrupted 
Monsieur Beranger. 

Milty burst out into re, with a zest that as- 
tounded the audience. The new governess was going 
to be capital Tun. When the lesson was over, she went 
up to Miss Lavinia and said very seriously, — 

“I’m so glad 3'ou admire Monsieur Beranger ; I do 
immensely. By the by, did 3^ou notice how he stared 
at 3^011 when he was going out of the room ? ” 

“Law! no. Did he?” exclaimed the credulous 
Lavinia. 

“ I promise 3^011, he never looked at Miss Jones like 
that. But then she was so ugly, and quite old, — at 
least fort3^” 

“Who told 3"ou he was looking out for a wife?” 
inquired Miss Lavinia, coming back to the main 
point. 

“ I overheard him talking about it one morning with 
Madame St. Simon,” replied Milly audaciousl3\ “He 
said he had a decided preference for Englishwomen, 
— the3^ w'ere so much more home-loving than French 
wives. You see if he does 11 1 propose to 3'Ou before the 
month is out ! ” 

“ Did I ever ! ” tittered the governess in an ecstac3\ 

“You might do worse,” pursued the incorrigible 
Mill3\ “ He must have lots of mone3" ; and he goes into 
the best societ3", — in Paris, 3’ou know, artists do. Miss 
Laventine.” 

“ Pray call me Lavinia. It sounds so stuck-up 
between girls, calling each other ‘ Miss.’ ” 


126 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ Lavinia Stranger,” said Milly; “how pretty it 
sounds ! ” 

“You dear creature, what a quiz you are!” ex- 
claimed the delighted Lavinia. “ Just think if any 
one heard you ! ” 

Miss Jackson took care that every one did hear her 
before the day was over. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


127 


CHAPTER XV. 


T was Carnival time in Paris, and Madame St. 



JL Simon alwa3’s gave three soirees dansantes during 
the gay season. Nothing was so improving to 3’oung 
people as mixing in good societ3", and those who 
frequented the salon at Belle-Vue were supposed to 
represent the flower of the monde elegant de Paris. 

The announcement that the first reception would 
take place in a fortnight was received with great de- 
light b3’' the parlor-boarders. The French pupils were 
never invited, though Madame St. Simon would gladly 
have- included some of them in the invitations ; but 
French mothers are wary of allowing their daughters 
to be seen in a drawing-room awa3' from their own 
guardianship ; the pensionnaires therefore saw nothing 
of the soirees dansantes beyond the dresses of the 
parlor-boarders, which furnished ample matter for 
comment and criticism in the school. 

Miss Lavinia was busiest of the bus3^ She spread 
her three English tarlatans on three chairs in Henri- 
etta Wilson’s room, and surve3"ed them with anxious 
scrutiny. The pink one became her best, but it was 
dolefull3' seedy ; the blue was in a less advanced stage 
of deca3y but the color was tiying to her brunette 
complexion ; there remained the white. Madame St. 
Simon had recommended pure white as the most suit- 
able to her 3"Oiing guests. “ C’est jeune, et toujours 
de bon gout,” she said ; the prevailing color was, there- 
fore, likely to be white, and Miss Lavinia’s discolored 
flounces would make a soriy figure beside the immacu- 
late toilets of her pupils, all fresh from the needle. 

The question was put to the parlor-boarders whether 
it would be possible for her to appear in one of the old 
dresses. The3^ declared she could not. It would be an 


128 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


injustice to herself, and almost an inconvenance to the 
mistress of the house. 

Miss Lavinia accepted this opinion, and resolved to 
invest in a new gown. 

‘‘ I dare say there won’t be a man -worth dancing with 
on Tuesda}^ after our spending a mint of money on 
bedizening ourselves,” observed Milly Jackson. 

“We are sure to have all the professors, except poor 
old Herr Carl,” remarked Henrietta ; “ but the}- are not 
likely to be overcome by our toilettes., if the}’ have 
resisted our beauty unadorned so long.” 

“A lot of old prigs!” sneered disrespectful Milly. 
‘ ‘ They won’t know how to put one foot before the 
other.” 

“ The new Italian master is rather good-looking,” 
observed Miss Wood, “if he were n’t such a cub.” 

“Monsieur Beranger w’ould be worth setting one’s 
cap at,” suggested Milly, with a sly look at Miss 
Lavinia, “if some one else hadn’t done us out of any 
chance in that quarter.” 

“Whom can you possibly mean?” simpered the 
governess, with a blush and a toss of her head. 

“ Whomever the cap fits,” replied Milly. 

“Well, I’m sure!” protested Miss Lavinia, and she 
flounced out of the room. 

The whole week preceding the eventful day was 
devoted almost exclusively to milliners and mantua- 
makers. 

Miss Lavinia scoured the Boulevards in search of a 
dress combining fashion, taste, and economy. She was 
attracted b}^ a haute nouveaute figuring in a shop- 
wdndow, and marked thirty-five francs, read3’-made. 
In England she would not have hesitated a moment. 
The coarse, stiff gauze, with its rows of pink and white 
tuyotte flounces, would have insured universal admira- 
tion ; but Paris had a different standard. 

Henrietta Wilson’s dress had already come home, 
and thrown Miss Lavinia into alternate parox3’sms of 
despair and delight. It was “ une petite robe toute 
simple,” the milliner said, onl}^ costing two hundred 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


129 


francs, and composed entirel}^ of white tulle over a silk 
petticoat ; but such a marvel of houillonnes and tuy- 
ottes and ruches and puffings, that how human hands 
had constructed the fabric was a m3'ster3^ to Miss 
Lavinia. After much and deep meditation, the foolish 
woman decided on ordering a similar dress from the 
same wonder-worker. Eight pounds was a great sum 
to spend on a ball dress ; she had never committed 
such a piece of foil}" in her life ; but then it would prove 
a good investment. She had every reason to believe 
Monsieur Beranger serious in his views towards her. 
He made a point of bowing to her, even when she was 
not de garde during his lesson. Once, when she had 
stopped him in the cloisters with some sill}’ inquiiy 
about the best method of solfege^ which she said a 
friend had requested her to ascertain, the polite and 
voluble Frenchman had answered her very graciously, 
remaining uncovered while he spoke, and sa\'ing, after 
the manner of his countrymen, in fift}’ words what an 
Englishman would have said in five. Added to this 
evidence of his intentions, hare-brained Mill}’ Jack- 
son’s assertion that he had fallen in love with the bru- 
nette at first sight had not escaped her. Altogether, 
Miss Lavinia was in a happy frame of mind, and con- 
sidered it incumbent on her to spend eight pounds, 
being just one-third of her earthly capital, in a white 
tulle dress. 

The evening came at last, and Belle-Vue was astir, as 
it behooved it to be on so great an occasion. 

Two hair-dressers had been summoned to show their 
skill on the heads of the parlor-boarders. There was 
hurrying to and fro in the long corridor ; figures in 
dressing-gowns were rushing in and out of the rooms 
where the capillary artists were carrying on their avo- 
cations, and loud were the complaints at the time each 
young lady exacted for the arrangement of her hair. 

“ If Harriet Wood made the man *do hers three 
different ways before she was satisfied, how was every 
one else to be ready by eight o’clock? It was past 
seven, and there were six more heads to be done ! ” 

9 


130 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“He made a fright of me the first time,” protested 
Miss Wood, “and I don’t believe I ’m a bit better 
now.” 

“Yes, indeed you are!” declared Miss Lavinia, who 
was in a state of mind bordering on insanit}^, lest her 
own head should be left in the lurch ; “ you can’t think 
how nice 3^011 are behind.” 

“ Mademoiselle est divinement coilfee I ” pronounced 
the hair-dresser oracularl}', as Miss Wood emerged 
from the peignoir that covered her ball dress. 

‘‘It’s my turn now,” said Henrietta Wilson, ensconc- 
ing herself in the chair before the looking-glass. 

“ Oh, that’s too bad! ’’protested Miss Lavinia, catch- 
ing hold of the dressing-gown, “when everybod}^ 
knows 1 ’ve been waiting here since the man came. 
N’est-ce pas, Monsieur?” 

“ Pardon, Madame,” replied the coiffeur^ respectfull}’" 
disengaging the wrapper from her hands, and throwing 
it over Henrietta’s shoulders, “ c’est a Mademoiselle.” 

“Well, I never!” ejaculated Miss Lavinia, and 
walked out of the room in disgust. 

The man thought, no doubt, that Henrietta’s long 
brown hair ofiered more scope for his talent than the 
governess’s bristl}^ locks. His brother artist was doing 
duty on Milly Jackson, under the superintendence of 
Mabel Stanhope, Olga Czerlinska, and the three Miss 
Flemings. 

Eveiy door was standing wide open, and the flam- 
ing fires and candles illuminating the dark passage, 
making it so bright that it hardl3^ knew itself. 

Miss Lavinia carried her grievances and her dishev- 
elled hair to coiffeur numero deux. 

“Monsieur,” she began, “je prefere votre st3’le ; 
vous ferez mes cheveux.” 

The man bowed, and mumbled something about trop 
d^honneur. 

“You’d have stood a better chance of being done 
next door,” put in Milly; “we are three on the list 
here after me.” 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! ” bemoaned Miss Lavinia, wring- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


131 


ing her hands, “ what am I to do? If 3’oii would let 
me pass before 3^ou, Miss Stanhope, I would n’t delay 
you five minutes. I only want him to do my back 
hair.” 

“I’m the last on the list,” replied Mabel ; “ but if 
3'ou like to take niy place, 3'ou ma3". I don’t think it’s 
possible for him to do us. all ; so I ’ll dress my hair 
myself.” 

“ Don’t go till he gets through with me,” pleaded 
Mill3", seeing Mabel gather up her brushes and blue rib- 
bons. “Just sta3", and see that he doesn’t make a 
gu3' of me.” 

“As if my seeing would prevent him ! ” laughed 
Mabel. “ But he has almost finished, and,! think he 
has done you veiy becomingl3\” 

“ How do I do? ” cried Miss Wood, rushing in with 
fan, gloves, and bouquet., read3’' for the fight, and turn- 
ing herself round for inspection. 

“ Beautifulty ! ” exclaimed the six girls in chorus. 
Milly could see her in the glass. 

Miss Lavinia said nothing ; she felt aggrieved and 
spiteful. 

“What a time the man takes!” she grumbled; 
“ he ’s been at that bandeau these five minutes.” 

“ You need n’t growl, old lad3’,” observed Milly ma- 
liciously ; “ he ’ll not go quicker for that.” 

“ Old lady” nettled Miss Lavinia ; but she swallow^ed 
her indignation in silence. If she quarrelled here, her 
last chance was gone. 

In a few minutes Milly was pronounced coiffee a 
ravir, and her place was taken 1)3^ the eldest Miss 
Fleming. 

Mabel then betook herself to her own room, and with 
some assistance from Olga succeeded in intertwining 
the roll of light blue ribbon through her hair and ar- 
ranging it in a way that was highly approved of b3^ 
her companions, and voted far more artistic than an3'- 
thing achieved b3’' the coiffeurs. 

Perhaps they were right. The thick rolls of silken 
hair were twisted like ropes of gold round the small, 


132 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


graceful head, and formed a coronet as perfect as aii}^- 
thing art could weave. 

Eveiy one was now ready except poor Miss La- 
vinia, who wandered in and out of the different rooms, 
woriying ever3^bod3" with her complaints at the unfair- 
ness of her not being attended to, and appealing to 
eveiTbod3' to help her. 

“"where is the use of whining and wdiimpering ? ” 
cried Milly Jackson, out of patience with her ; “ it won’t 
curl 3’our hair, and 3'ou ’ll come down looking as cross 
as two sticks.” 

‘ ‘ Oh m3^ ! oh my ! ” cried Miss Lavinia distractedl3' ; 
“ there is eight o’clock ; I ’ll never be done ! ” 

“ Do 3’ourself, as Mabel did,” was Mill3’’s consolatory 
advice. 

“ Yes, and spoil m3" dress, or lose half an hour taking 
it off and putting it on again ! ” scolded Miss Lavinia. 
“ I never knew such a selfish set of girls in m3" life ! ” 

“You don’t mean it!” sneered Mill3’, clasping her 
bracelet. 

Coiffeur No. 2 came to the door where the two ladies 
were interchanging compliments, and called out, — 

“ Je suis aux ordres de Madame.” 

Miss Lavinia could have embraced the man, but had 
strength of mind not to do it, and sat down before Miss 
Jackson’s dressing-table, la3'ing hands on eveiy appli- 
ance it presented for her deliverer’s convenience, — 
brushes, combs, powder, and pomatum. 

Mill3" was about to protest ; but throwing her e3’es 
on the glass, she felt benignl3" disposed towards her 
fellow-creatures, and took no notice of Lavinia’s 
misdemeanor. 

She sauntered out of the room to surve3" and be sur- 
ve3"ed, feeling decidedly satisfied with her own appear- 
^ance. Without being handsome, she was a fine, stylish 
girl, with that clear English complexion that gave her 
what the French call “ la beaute du diable.” 

Fanchette, the parlor-maid, with a letter in her hand, 
came panting up the stairs as Miss Jackson appeared 
in the corridor. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


133 


I “Pour moi!” cried the latter, laying hold of the 
missive. 

“ Non, c’est pour Mademoiselle Henriette,” replied 
the woman, surrendering the envelope to her scrutin}^ 
“ Ces demoiselles are to come down at once; there 
is du monde already, and nobody in the salon but 
Madame.” 

She left Mill}' puzzling over the writing and the seal 
and the postmark of her friend’s letter, and went on to 
deliver her message to the others. 

“ A coronet,” said Milly, holding up the letter to the 

I tqidnquet on the wall, “and a Paris stamp, — hem! 
I A man’s writing, too — Sly boots I ” and she went to 
f look for Henrietta. 

j “Come here, Henrietta; I want 3’ou,” she cried, 

^ beckoning to her friend, who was standing in Miss 
Wood’s room giving a finishing shake to the folds of 
1 that 3'Oung lad3'’s dress. 

I Henrietta came out. 

“I have a word to say to 3’ou. Come into 3’our own 
R room ; that antique goose, Lavinia, is in mine.” 

When the}" were alone Mill}- dropped the letter on the 
7 table from the folds of her handkerchief. 

I “I wonder who that is from?” she said, fixing her 
\ eje on Henrietta. 

; Henrietta snatched at the letter with a scream. 

I “Please don’t get up a fainting-fit; there’s no time, 
and besides it would crush 3"our dress. Just read it, 
and let us hear what he says.” 

Miss Wilson had nothing for it but to break the seal. 
She trembled so violent!}" that Milly in compassion 
pushed a chair towards her and bade her sit down. 

“ He is coming here to-night ! ” she cried, letting the 
paper drop on her knees. 

Miss Jackson — we blush to record it, but the truth 
must be told — Miss Jackson gave a low whistle. She 
put out her hand to take the letter ; but Henrietta 
clutched it tightly. Expose those rapturous lines to 
Milly’s sarcasm ! No ; that was impossible. 

“ I ’ll tell you what he says ; but I can’t show 


/ 


( 

134 MABEL STANHOPE, 

it to you,” she said, looking up beseechingly at her 
confidant. 

“Well ! ” protested Milly sulkily. 

“ Don’t be angry, Milly dear. There ’s nothing in it 
you ’d care to see, — indeed there is n’t ; and I ’ll tell 
3 ’oii it all.” 

“ Very likel}^ ! ” sneered Miss Jackson. “ However, 
I ought perhaps to thank you for sparing niy nerves. 
Praj" how is Leander to reach his ladj^-love ? What a 
pit}^ there is n’t a ditch or a pond or something for him 
to swim across ! Of course, he ’s not likel}’ to walk 
on his feet and come in at the door like a common 
mortal.” 

“Yes, he is,” dissented Henrietta meekly; “he’s 
been invited to the soiree by Madame St. Simon.” 

“The girl is gone mad!” declared Miss Jackson, 
starting two steps backward. 

“No, I’m not. He says a friend got an invita- 
tion for him. He is to be here at nine, and of course 
says — ” 

“ Depechez-vous, Mesdemoiselles I ” cried Fanchette, 
thundering at the door. 

Henrietta thrust her letter into her pocket, and kiss- 
ing Mill}^, implored her not to betray her by word or 
look. 

Milly promised, in true school-girl fashion, “ on 
her sacred honor ” to die rather than compromise her 
friend. Then the two sallied out together, and found 
their companions assembled in the passage. 

The}' mustered twelve in number ; and a pretty group 
the}^ made, — those fresh young girls all fluttering with 
excitement and expected pleasure. 

Miss Lavinia was still in the hands of the coiffeur,, and 
might be heard sending forth piteous entreaties for “ a 
few more hair-pins ” as her pupils betook themselves 
down-stairs. 

There was a scuffle at the salon door, — not for pre- 
cedence, but to escape it. Little Miss Wood declared 
Jemima Long, being the tallest, should go first ; Jemima 
fell into the rear, alleging that Henrietta Wilson, as 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


135 


eldest of the party, was most fit to take the lead ; Hen- 
rietta uttered a faint “ Oh, dreadful! ” and fell behind 
Jemima. In fact, the question ran a bad chance of be- 
ing settled at all, if Fanchette, impatient at the dela}', 
had not thrown open the door and ushered the scufflers 
into the presence as they stood. 

Madame St. Simon came forward with her blandest 
smile to welcome her young guests. She had a petit 
mot for every one, — a compliment or a caress. 

The room was brilliantly lighted ; the new lustre — 
“ a surprise from ces cheres enfants.,” Madame whispered 
to her friends — was inaugurated for the occasion. 
There were flowers here and there, and altogether the 
large square salon looked as gay and pretty as need 
be. 

Before nine it was tolerably filled. 

As the 3’oung ladies had prophesied, all the professors 
were there, — all except Monsieur Beranger. 

Miss Lavinia made her appearance about half-past 
eight, looking painfull^" ridiculous in her fleecy toilet, 
her hair tormented into the most distressing predica- 
ment on the top of her head. The coiffeur had done 
his worst. The little corkscrew}" ringlets were gathered 
off' her face, making the sharp angles sharper, and 
showing up every wrinkle that used to shelter itself be- 
hind the ringlets in their natural state. It was a pitiable 
sight ; but 3’outh is pitiless to such folh" as Miss La- 
vinia’s. Her appearance in the salon was followed by 
a suppressed titter all round the room. She was too 
excited to notice it, and casting about for some eligible 
position, made her waj" to a vacant seat near Miss Wil- 
son. Their dresses were alike ; and Miss Lavinia 
thought the}" should probably be taken for sisters. 

Dancing began. Henrietta made a pretence of being 
absorbed in her neighbor’s conversation, and busied 
herself with some imaginary complication in the but- 
tons of her glove. She was resolved Adrien should not 
find her flying round the room in any one else’s arms, 
and was terrified she should be asked to dance before 
he arrived. 


136 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Miss Lavinia was equally nervous on her own ac- 
count. What could Monsieur Beranger mean b}" not 
coming? Of course he was invited ; she had no doubt 
on that score. Could he be ill? Then her two hun- 
dred francs would be thrown awa}’, after all ! 

Henrietta might have set her heart at rest if she had 
chosen ; but even to Milly Jackson she had not ex- 
plained how and through whom Monsieur de Perron- 
ville was bidden to the dance this evening. She did 
not say that her lover had particularly inquired the 
names of the artists attending Belle-Vue, in answer 
to a letter in which she had mentioned the approach- 
ing soiree., expressing a vain wish that he might be 
there. It was not necessaiy to tell Milly that Adrien 
sang divinely (since he sang at all, of course it was 
divinely), and was taking lessons from Monsieur Be- 
ranger ; and how the pupil and master had grown inti- 
mate over their solfege^ — so that when, quite casually, 
the master spoke of his being invited to a soiree 
dansante at Belle-Vue, where there was a very flower- 
garden of jolies Anglaises^ the pupil had said: “ Ma 
foi ! je voudrais bien voir cela ! ” and how Monsieur 
Beranger had asked Madame St. Simon for an invita- 
tion for his friend the Vicomte de Perron ville, which 
was graciously granted by the mistress of the house. 
All this, as it occurred, had been made known to 
Henrietta ; and if she were conscious of Miss Lavinia’s 
anxiety of mind, it was certainly unkind not to relieve 
it, as she might have done. 

Ten minutes past nine, and still the two sat in 
trembling suspense. The quadrille was over, and there 
was a lull in the music. Ces messieurs bowed their 
partners to seats, plunged for their hats under the 
vacant chairs, and stood about in groups chatting 
together. 

Henrietta’s eyes kept wandering to the clock on 
the mantel-piece ; a quarter past nine, and not come 
yet. 

‘ ‘ Dear Henrietta ! ” exclaimed Miss Lavinia, clutch- 
ing her tightly by the wrist. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


137 


“ Oh, you hurt me ! ” said the girl, testily. “ What ’s 
the matter?” 

“ He’s come ! ” whispered Miss Lavinia, in a thrill 
of excitement. “ Who ’s that with him, I wonder?” 

Henrietta looked towards the door, and saw Mon- 
sieur Beranger in the act of presenting a gentleman -to 
Madame St. Simon. The presented part}" bowed so 
low that for a moment his head and shoulders were 
eclipsed b_y the portl}" figure of the hostess. But 
Henrietta had no need of the testimony of her eyes to 
vouch for his identit3^ She remained perfectly still, 
and apparently unconcerned in what w'as going on 
before her. No one but Milly Jackson noticed that the 
blood rushed fiercely to her neck and face, leaving her 
veiy pale a moment after. 

Milly was not a bad friend, as she said herself; 
and fancying her vicinit}' might be a sort of shield to 
Henrietta, she left her place and walked across to Miss 
Wilson, scattering the gentlemen to make way for her. 

“ Miss Lavinia,” she began, addressing the govern- 
ess, with a serio-comic face, “the room will be strewn 
with corpses before the night is out ! ” 

“What does Miss Jackson mean?” And Miss La- 
vinia turned to Henrietta with an air of innocence. 

“Miss Jackson means,” replied Milly, “that the 
gentlemen are fit to strangle themselves in their white 
cravats, all about those curls a la Sevigne. I call it 
very unfair. Miss Laventine ; ” and Milly tossed her 
head and played with her fan, keeping her e3’e mean- 
time on the two gentlemen near Madame St. Simon. 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte est trop aimable,” the lady 
was asserting, in a voice rather louder than was neces- 
sary for good taste. 

“ Law ! he ’s a viscount ! ” echoed Miss Lavinia, in a 
reverent sotto voce. 

“ And the thing has onl}' two legs ! ” whispered Miss 
Jackson, opening her eyes incredulousl}'. 

“ Mill}^ ! ” chided Henrietta. 

“ I wonder if the Vicomte will dance,” said Miss 
Lavinia. 


138 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


“I wonder will somebody else dance,” returned 
Mill}", with a sly look at her. 

“ Oh, rn}" ! oh, my!” exclaimed Miss Lavinia, put- 
ting her hand to her head ; “ I believe my back hair is 
coming down ! For gracious sake, look and tell me ! ” 

Milly looked, and pronounced the back hair ‘■‘ all 
serene ; ” it was onl}^ an unriil}^ curl, that had broken 
loose and slipped down on her neck. 

“They’re going to ask Miss Stanhope to dance ! ” 
exclaimed Miss Lavinia, with more vehemence than the 
fact seemed to warrant. 

“ Do you mean old Beranger, or the Viscount?” 

“Well, I never!” protested Miss Lavinia, turning 
an indignant look on tlie 3'oiing lady. 

Henrietta kept quietly watching the new-comers mov- 
ing about the room. 

Of course Monsieur de Perronville would not venture 
to come towards her just yet, or ask her to dance till 
he had gone through the ceremony with some of her 
companions. She was prepared for that ; and yet when 
the two gentlemen stopped before Mabel Stanhope, and 
were answered by a slight inclination of the head and 
a few inaudible words, Henrietta felt decidedly ag- 
grieved, — which was absurd, because the hussar must 
dance with some one first. It was Monsieur Beranger’s 
fault, bringing him up to Mabel ; of course he had no 
choice but to ask her. 

The waltzers were soon whirling round the room, 
sending a hat flying here and there ; but Henrietta 
only saw one couple in the crowd, — a tall figure in 
black, and a slight, fair one in white. When Miss 
Lavinia had called Mabel haughty, Henrietta thought 
it a mistake, and' said so ; but she was beginning to 
understand what Miss Lavinia meant. Mabel did 
look haughty, with that stately head bending forward 
under its golden circlet, looking as if she knew no girl 
in the room could compare with her in beaut}". Such 
affectation, too, — twisting up her hair in that school- 
girl fashion, and wearing a plain white muslin frock I 
— as much as to say she was too beautiful to want 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


139 


any help from dress ! Henrietta thought it showed 
veiy bad taste on Mabel’s part. Oddly enough, this 
had not struck her till now ; but she grew more and 
more alive to it as she sat watching that round white 
arm resting on the black coat. 

The dancers paused to take breath, Monsieur de 
Perron ville supporting his partner on his arm. 

“Time for them to stop,” Henrietta muttered pet-^ 
tishly. “ Off again ! well, I do call it most unladj’like 
of Mabel ! ” 

Henrietta forgot to look at the timepiece when the 
dance began, or she would have seen the waltz had not 
lasted quite four minutes. 

Milly was being reeled about b}^ one of the music- 
masters. 

Miss Lavinia was still doing tapisserie beside 
Henrietta. 

“ It is awfully slow,” observed Miss Lavmia. 

“Miss Stanhope doesn’t seem to think so,” replied 
Henrietta, flinging back Mabel’s sash, that flew up 
against her face ; the ribbon was simply tied into a 
bow, and Henrietta’s angry jerk unfastened it. 

“ Permettez-moi, Mademoiselle,” cried Monsieur de 
Perronville, catching eagerly at the blue streamer, that 
had entangled itself between his feet; “we soldiers are 
rather clever at making bows ; ” and he passed the 
ribbon round her waist, tying it into a loop before 
Mabel had unbuttoned her glove. 

“I call that very prettily done,” said Miss Lavinia, 
as Mabel rather condescendingly bowed her thanks and 
escaped to a chair in the corner. 

“ I call it perfectly disgusting!” retorted Henri- 
etta. 

“Well, I think she is a bit of a flirt,” assented' 
Miss Lavinia, “but it’s hard to be a beauty withv 
out it.” 

“Beauty is a matter of taste; so is flirtation,” re- 
marked Henrietta, drily. 

“There’s the Viscount talking to Madame,” whis- 
pered Miss Lavinia, nudging her companion ; “ they ’re 


140 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


coming this way ; ” and she commenced operations with 
her fan and her pocket-handkerchief. 

Henrietta’s color came and went, but she meditated 
on the lustre, counting the lights for the fifteenth time, 
and wondering whether Adrien would muster courage 
to ask her to dance, or pass on to some one else. 
They were close b}’ her now. 

“ Ma petite Henriette, vous ne dansez pas?” ex- 
claimed Madame 8t. Simon, la3ing her hand caressingly 
on the girl’s shoulder, “ voulez-vous que je vous trouve 
un danseur? Monsieur le Vicomte, do me the pleasure 
to invite Mademoiselle for the next dance.” And the 
smiling hostess passed on to do duty elsewhere. 

Henrietta was conscious of a sudden blaze of light in 
the room, and of a pair of fiery gra\" e3'es bent upon 
her, — a voice muttering something about “ I’honneur, 
Mademoiselle ; ” and she had no recollection of an3^- 
thing further, till she felt herself borne along b3" a 
strong arm through the maze of dancers. 

Miss Lavinia looked enviousl3' after the pair, and 
thought to herself that Monsieur le Vicomte’s graceful 
steps would have shown to much greater advantage had 
she been his partner instead of that lackadaisical 
school-girl. 

But what did Monsieur BcTanger mean? He had 
not even spoken to her since his arrival. She began 
to suspect Madame St. Simon had noticed his atten- 
tions, and was jealous of them. Nothing else could 
account for his extraordinaiy conduct. He had not 
joined in the dancing 3’et, but went from one to another 
of his pupils, chatting pleasantly. 

The waltz ended. Monsieur de Perronville led Henri- 
etta back to her seat. He had not dared to sa3^ more 
than a few whispered words to her, lest he should 
attract observation ; but Henrietta was supremel3’ 
happ3\ The excitement had given a brillianc3^ to her 
eyes and a color to her cheeks that changed the whole 
expression of her face, so cold and sullen a few min- 
utes ago. 

“Whom does that tete im, possible belong to?” in- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


141 


quired Monsieur de Perronville, as lie bowed his prett}’ 
partner to her seat next the governess, and stood for a 
moment playing with his hat. 

“To Miss Laventine, our English teacher; you’ll 
ask her to dance, will 3'ou not? ” 

“ Barbare ! ” murmured the young officer in a re- 
proachful tone, examining very intently the maker’s 
name in his hat. 

“ To please me, Adrien ! ” 

“C’est me mettre le pistolet a la gorge,” replied 
Adrien, picking up his glove which had dropped, acci- 
dentally", at Henrietta’s feet. 

The musicians struck up a quadrille. Since he must 
execute himself with that tUe impossible^ a partie 
carree was better than a tUe-a-tete. 

“ Will Mademoiselle do me the honor to present me 
to her friend?” he said to Henrietta, loud enough for 
Miss Lavinia to hear him. 

Henrietta did him the honor ; and the gentleman 
then asked Miss Lavinia for her hand in the quadrille, 
which Miss Lavinia, nothing loath, conceded. 

Miss Wilson congratulated herself on having so far 
secured a safe partner for Adrien. If he would dance 
next with one of those ugly Flemings, that would be 
veiy satisfactory. Then, perhaps, he might venture to 
ask her again. How singular that she should be the 
only one to whom Madame St. Simon had introduced 
him ! Henrietta thought it a good omen. 

Poor Miss Lavinia was beside herself with delight, 
in spite of Monsieur Beranger’s desertion. Indeed, 
that rather gave a stimulus to her enjoy^ment ; and she 
was glad to show the faithless Professor that younger 
and handsomer men were ready to dispute the prize 
with him. 

Monsieur de Perronville talked a great deal to her, — 
told her she spoke French a merveille^ and wished he 
could learn English from so charming a mistress ; upon 
which, Miss Lavinia called him a flatterer, and shook 
her curls a la Seoigne^ till a refractory rose-bud 
escaped from bondage, and dropped on her partner’s 


142 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


arm. Monsieur de Perron ville seized the flower, vow- 
ing that nothing on earth should induce him to give it 
up, whereCipon Miss Lavinia nearly expired with 
delight. 

What in the Saints’ name possessed you to fall a 
victim to that rusty old piece of artiller}^, mon cherf^^ 
inquired Monsieur Beranger when Adrien joined him 
after the quadrille. 

“ She keeps firing a random shot at you, every now 
and then, retorted Monsieur de Perronville ; “you’ll 
be brought down presently. Monsieur le Professeur.” 

“ Allons done !” laughed Monsieur Beranger, good- 
humoredlj?^ ; and he strengthened himself with a pinch 
of snuff. 

The hussar left him, and claimed another w^altz from 
Henrietta as a reward for his devouement. 

Notwithstanding his pupil’s prognostications, Mon- 
sieur Beranger escaped unharmed from Miss Lavinia’s 
cannonading. At half-past eleven he came to speak to 
Madame St. Simon, who was seated near Miss Lavinia, 
and said a few words which the latter did not catch ; 
but Madame’s answer she did catch. ’ 

“ If that be the case,” the hostess was saying, “I 
must let you go. You will tell Madame Beranger how 
sorry I was not to see her ; we are unfortunate in 
never being able to have her among us.” 

“My wife feels the disappointment 'Uiore than you 
do, I assure you,” replied the gentleman; “ she quite 
counted on being able to come with me, but this dread- 
ful neuralgia is so treacherous ! ” 

Miss Lavinia heard no more. She' was absolutel}" 
petrified. The Professor turned to wish her good- 
night, but she glared at him stupidlj-, and then strug- 
gling out of the salon.f rushed to the little garret-room, 
where, some short time ago, sorrow of a different kind 
had found vent in tears less fruitless, less bitter, than 
those Miss Lavinia shed over her disappointed vanity. 

- It was a cruel blow ; but, to do her justice. Miss 
Lavinia bore it bravely. She had no reason to suspect 
Miss Jackson of having intentionally deceived her in 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


143 

, ^ 
the matter, and in this she was right. Milly did not 
know the Professor was a married man ; she had given 
the governess to believe he was looking for a wife, not 
with any preconceived idea of deceiving the foolish 
woman, but from that uncontrollable love of a “ lark” 
which would have led her into any other absurdity. 

Monsieur de Perronville, meanwhile, paid his court 
to Madame St. Simon, and was taken into high favor; 
he was soon quite at home with her, and praised or 
criticised her pretty pupils with well-bred impertinence ; 
Miss Jackson piquante., Miss Wilson inter essante., 
Miss Stanhope adorable de grace et de heaute. 

“ Take care of your heart, cher Yicomte I ” said the 
lad}’’ in playful warning, as Monsieur de Perronville 
scattered his compliments, and curled his mustache. 

“ I have placed it in safe keeping,” answered the 
hussar, lowering his voice, and bowing a declaration to 
Madame St. Simon. 

“ Flatteur ! ” chided the hostess, with an indulgent 
smile, a tinge of womanlj^ embarrassment softening the 
hard expression of her face. “ Go and dance with 
some of my children, instead *of talking nonsense to 
me. There is I’interessante, as you call her, w^aiting 
for a partner.” 

And so, cleverly enough. Monsieur de Perronville 
threw the dragon off her guard. 


144 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


) 


CHAPTER XVI. 


URING Lent, a certain portion of Miss Lavinia’s 



u flock gathered more frequently than usual round 
the Catholic pulpits. It so happened that, owing to 
the crowd of worshippers, the young ladies were often 
separated from their chaperone before they secured 
seats, and Miss Lavinia was generally found waiting 
for her missing lambs at the church door when service 
was over. 

The sermons were no doubt very attractive, judging 
from the assiduity with which the young ladies at- 
tended them ; it was likewise an excellent lesson in 
French, and Madame St. Simon saw no reason for 
preventing her pupils from enjo3dng it ; thej^ w'ere sent 
to Paris to improve themselves. 

Easter Sunday' morning rose bright and cloudless 
over the beautiful city, as the English governess, with 
five of the parlor-boarders, wended her wa^" down the 
Champs Etysees. The}^ were going to witness the 
solemn high Mass at St. Eustache. 

When the}’ arrived, the building was alread}’ densely 
crowded, the organ was pealing out its rich volume of 
music, and the sacred ministrants w^ere ascending the 
altar. It was impossible for Miss Lavinia to keep 
her flock together ; the}" were separated from lier 
almost immediately, and lost sight of each other in the 
crowd. 

The service lasted two hours, and then the congrega- 
tion poured out from the sacred ediflce. 

Miss Lavinia did not stir till the last notes of the 
“ Domine Salvum” had died away, and the crowd had 
dispersed, leaving only a few’ stray worshippers scat- 
tered here and there, waiting, apparently, for friends 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


145 


parted from them in the crush, as Miss Lavinia had 
been from her charges. 

Mabel and Miss Fleming were there, so were Milly 
Jackson and Miss Wood. On a sign from Miss Lavi- 
nia they came towards her ; Henrietta was now the 
only one missing. 

“ I dare say she is somewhere at the other side,” said 
Milly. “ I got separated from her close b}' the pulpit ; 
she must have made her wa}^ behind it ; I ’ll walk round 
and look.” 

“ We had better all go,” replied Miss Lavinia, “or 
we shall have to send some one to look for you, and get 
separated again.” 

All five according!}' rose and walked round the church 
together; but no Henrietta was forthcoming. 

“ She must be waiting for us outside,” suggested 
Mabel ; “let us go and see.” 

But neither outside nor in was the truant to be seen. 
Miss Lavinia was beginning to feel annoyed ; she thought 
Henrietta was playing her a trick. -They came back into 
the church, and again walked all round the cloisters, 
peeping behind every pillar, every statue, in the side 
chapels ; but to no purpose. 

Miss Lavinia now was very uneasy. 

“ She may have fainted in the crowd, and been car- 
ried somewhere for assistance,” she said, “where could 
we inquire ? ” 

“At the Sacrist}", I suppose,” said Miss Fleming, 
“ there ’s a soldier going in ; let us ask him.” 

The soldier happened to be the /Suisse of the church, 
whose cocked hat and silver-slashed uniform had enough 
of the military character about it to justify the mistake. 

The five ladies marched up to the parochial dignitary, 
and asked if a young lady who was supposed to have 
fainted had been taken to the Sacristy during service. 

The /Suisse replied that he had not heard of such a 
young lady ; but he would inquire. The inquiry was 
made, but no interesting young lady had been seen in 
the Sacristy, nor had any one been known to faint that 
morning. 


10 


146 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Miss Lavinia grew seriously alarmed. What had be- 
come of Henrietta? Where could she have gone to? 
Had nobody an idea? 

Yes, Milly Jackson had an idea, but she kept it to 
herself. 

From the moment Henrietta was found missing she 
had had a suspicion, and now it was almost a certaint}^ 
Yet Milly was to the full as much astonished as Miss 
Lavinia. The idea that Henrietta would elope had 
never crossed her mind ; had Henrietta given her the 
slightest intimation of such a project, she would have 
used all her influence to dissuade her from it, and that 
failing, would have gone straight to Madame St. Simon 
and denounced her. Milly said this over and over to 
herself while the\" were sailing round about, and up 
and down the church, looking for what she feared was 
never to be found there. She was frivolous and un- 
thinking, but at heart she was good and honest. This 
guilty flight of her companion shocked and stunned her ; 
for guilty Henrietta was, however the flight might end, — 
guilty of falsehood and disobedience to her famil}", of 
contempt of their authority which she defied, of their 
sorrow or their anger which she set at nought. \Yhat 
blessing could there be on such a marriage? 

But what if he should not many her ? 

Milly’s heart grew sick within her as the possibility of 
this horrible alternative rose up before her. And she 
had been an accomplice in bringing it about, — a tacit 
accomplice, she repeated, but still an accomplice. She 
had aided and encouraged Henrietta from that first fatal 
meeting in the church of the Madeleine to the last in- 
terview of the pair at Belle-Vue on the night of the clos- 
ing soiree. How long had this flight been arranged ? or 
had Henrietta resolved to elope with him from the first, 
and been deceiving Milty all through*? She was asking 
herself such questions as these while the search was still 
kept up ; Miss Lavinia continually wondering what was 
to be done, and asking if nobody had an idea. 

“I have an idea that we had better go home,” sug- 
gested Milly, as the party stood at the front door, after 


MABEL STANHOPE. 147 

‘ walking three times round the church inside, and twice 
I ' outside. 

' ‘‘And what are we to sa}^ to Madame St. Simon?” 
I inquired Miss Lavinia, staring helplessly about her. 

“ Tell her Henrietta has run away ! ” 

“ A pretty piece of advice ! ” snapped Miss Lavinia ; 
“ Madame St. Simon would tell me to run after her.” 

“ Just as likely,” assented Mill}". 

“ Nonsense,” cried Mabel, “ what fault is it of Miss 
I Lavinia’s? She could not keep Henrietta in her pocket, 
i I suppose ! The question is, where is sh(| gone?’’ 

I “ Precisely,” returned Milly ; “that is the question, 

I and we’ll not settle it by standing here, that I can 
I see.” 

“No,” said Miss Fleming, “I think we had better 
! go home.” 

Miss Lavinia thought that, under the circumstances, 
the best thing for her would be not to go home at all, 
and for a moment the idea occurred to her of making 
her escape there and then ; but it was only for a mo- 
ment. Any propert}" she possessed was at Belle-Vue ; 
she could not run away without it. Besides, where was 
c she to run to? Still, the thought of meeting Madame 
St. Simon, with such a story as she had to tell, made 
1 her tremble. 

“ Well,” she cried, “you must all come with me to 
Madame, and tell her how it happened, and that I could 
not help it. As Mabel says, I cannot keep you in my 
pocket ; you might all run away for that matter, and I 
■ : don’t see how I could be to blame. But where in the 
M name of wonder can the girl have run to ? Can she be 
H gone home?” 

I “ To Belle- Yue ! ” exclaimed the others incredulously. 

“ No, to England ; but now that you say it, she may 
have gone to Belle-Vue ! It’s the most likely thing, 
;| after all ; she may have felt ill from the heat, and driven 
; straight home. What fools we are not to have thought 
1 of it sooner ! ” 

I And Miss Lavinia hurried out of the church, greatly 
relieved by this possible solution of the mystery. 


148 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Whether her companions shared the hope or not, we 
cannot say ; but certainly Mill}' Jackson did not. 

She made no remark, but followed the party to the 
cab-stand on the Place St. p]ustache, where the five 
stowed themselves into two fiacres, with a recommenda- 
tion to the coachman to drive as quickly as possible. 

-‘Has Mademoiselle Henriette come home?” asked 
Miss Lavinia of the concierge, springing up the lodge- 
steps the moment the gate was opened. 

“ Mamzelle Henriette!” echoed the woman, raising 
her eyebrows. “No, she went out with 3'Ou, didn’t 
she ? I counted 3'ou six ; un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, 
— did 3'Ou lose the sixth on the road ? ” 

“ She has run awa}' ! ” exclaimed Miss Lavinia, wring- 
ing her hands. 

“Bonne Vierge Marie!” ejaculated the concierge, 
dropping her knitting-needles. 

“ Come in, Miss Lavinia,” said Milly, taking the gov- 
erness b}' the arm ; “ we ’ll stand b}' 3'ou ; but 3'Ou had 
better go at once to Madame St. Simon, and tell her the 
truth ; after all, she can’t eat 3^011 ! ” 

“ No, but she can turn me out like a dog, as she did 
Miss Jones ! ” sobbed Miss Lavinia. “ Mind your prom- 
ise to take m3' part, and sa}^ I looked after 3'ou, and 
tried to keep 3'ou together — that I alwa3's do ; mind 
3'ou sa}' it ! ” 

“We will, indeed we will!” declared the girls em- 
phatically ; and Miss Lavinia allowed them to draw her 
awa}^ from the lodge. 

‘ ‘ Is there an}' one with Madame ? ” inquired Milly of 
the portress. 

“Yes, Mamzelle, two ladies.” 

“ Then we can go upstairs and wait a bit,” proposed 
Miss Lavinia, breathing more freel}', “it’s better not 
to huiT}'.” 

What was to be gained by not hurrying, her pupils 
were at a loss to see ; still, the}' were all glad of a few 
minutes’ reprieve before leading her to the slaughter. 

“We had better not take off our things,” said Milly, 
“ but wait till the coast is clear, and then go at once to 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


149 


Madame St. Simon. Come to my room ; we can see 
from the window when those people go.” 

^ They did as she proposed ; Mabel keeping watch like 
sister Anne, while the governess fidgeted abbut the 

I room, pulling open her bonnet-strings, and tying them 
again every time she heard a door shut. 

“ How warm it is ! ” remarked Milly Jackson, draw- 
ing her handkerchief across her forehead. 

“You’ve dropped something,” said Miss Fleming, 
picking up a letter that fell from her companion’s 
j pocket; “it’s Henrietta’s writing, or I’m greatly 
I mistaken.” 

; Milly turned very white. Yes, it was Henrietta’s 

j writing. 

I “Thank goodness!” exclaimed Miss Lavinia, “I 

hope she has had the conscience to explain that I’m 
j not to blame. Read it, Milly ! ” 

“I dare sa}",” observed Milly, lingering over the 
\ address, and wondering how far the letter was likely 

I to compromise her. Henrietta could hardly speak of 
-,:her flight without disclosing Milh^’s knowledge of its 
■ antecedents. “If so,” she thought, “I have more to 
fear than Miss Lavinia.” 

“For pity’s sake, open it!” cried the latter, impa- 
. tiently ; “ you can’t read it through the envelope ! ” 
b “I didn’t expect to do so,” snubbed Miss Jackson. 

■' She broke the seal leisurely, and read what follows : — 

Dearest Milly, — When you read this, I shall be far 
from you. Do not be angry with me for what may seem a 
■ want of confidence, but I thought it was better for both of 
: us that I should not share my secret with you ; it might have 
: brought you into trouble, and you could not have helped me, 

, had you wished to do it. I shall meet my future husband 
j to-day at St. Eustache, whence he will take me to be married 
privately at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Madame St. Simon will be 
surprised at my leaving her so suddenly, but she must have 
' expected the step sooner or later. Monsieur de Perronville 
made no secret of his love for me, and his intention of carry- 
; ing me off clandestinely, if, as I feared, my guardian refused 
I his consent to our marriage. Unfortunately, my fears proved 
too true. In reply to Adrien’s letter, asking for my hand in 


150 


MABEL STANHOPE. 



the most honorable way, my guardian said that nothing would® 
induce him to consent to my marriage with a Frenchman;'^! 
that he would renounce me forever if I degraded myself by 
such an alliance, etc. In fact, the letter was so grossly in- 
sulting, that Adrien, out of regard for my feelings, refused 
to let me see it. At his request, I had not written myself to 
my guardian on the subject; but no duty that I owe as a 
ward could justify my sacrificing the happiness of my life to 
such tyranny. 

And now, dearest Milly, adieu! I shall never forget how 
kind you have always been to me. The best wish I can be- 
stow on you is that you may find a husband as good and as 
noble as mine. You shall not hear from me again till I sign 
myself, 

Henrietta de Perronville. 


It was evidently intended that Madame St. Simon 
should see this letter; and Milly felt grateful for the 
care Henrietta had taken that no word in it should 
compromise her friend. 

“Well, I suppose Madame St. Simon will see I had 
nothing to do with it,” cried Miss Lavinia. “ It would 
have been only just if Miss Wilson had said as much ; 
but people are so selfish, never considering any one but 
themselves.” 

“Perhaps 5W would like to show this to Juno,” 
observed Milly, handing her the letter. 

“I think it would be much more proper if 3’ou 
showed it to her 3’ourself,” remarked Miss Lavinia ; 
“it was written to. 3'ou, and 3’ou and Henrietta w^ere 
old friends.” 

“ In plain English, you ’re afraid to face Madame St. 
Simon, and you w'ant an excuse for shirking it ; I don’t 
see why I should be made a scape-goat,” continued 
Mill}^ ; “ not that I care a fig for her anger ; it’s rather 
good fun to see her in a tantrum, she’s so savage after- 
wards for slipping down off her pedestal.” 

“Yes,” rejoined Miss Wood, “you have the spirit 
of a dozen, Milly ; I wish I were half as plucky as ' 
you!” 

Now Milly was very proud of her pluck ; she valued it i 


HP'*' MABEL STANHOPE. 151 

1 ^ more than wisdom or wit, and was never sorry for an 
I opportunity of sustaining her character as the pluckiest 
I girl in the school. 

E “I don’t mind if I do go,” she said, defiantly. “ I 
I suppose those people are gone by this time.” 
r “I heard the gate swing while you were reading,” 
f said Mabel ; “it must have been the3\” 
r u Wish me good speed then,” said Mill}-, walking to 
}■ the door. 

‘I “ There’s a dear ! ” cried Miss Lavinia, catching her 
by the arm; “mind 3’ou say how I looked after you 
,£ all, how I never took my e3’es off 3’ou, and that if — ” 

^ “That if you plague me I’ll not go at all!” pro- 
tested Mill}", turning on her angrily. 

“Well, you’ll say for the best,” said Miss Lavinia 
coaxingly. 

We need not follow Milly to Madame St. Simon’s 
boudoir. Suffice it to say the interview was less stormy 
than might have been expected. 

Madame St. Simon was astounded and terrified, — 
terrified for herself more than for her ill-fated pupil. 

An enlevement from her house ! By a man, too, 
whom she herself had introduced there ; no clandestine 
acquaintance picked up out of doors by a coquette on 
the lookout for conquest ! ^'‘Quel esclandre! quel affreux 
! esclandre Madame St. Simon lost sight of every one 

( and everything in this one appalling fact. That Hen- 

rietta had gone to irreparable ruin, she had not a doubt. 
This marriage at Boulogne, and pretended correspond- 
I ence of the Viscount with his victim’s guardian, did not 

I deceive her. But what was the ruin and the shame of 

, an innocent girl to her ! She would have sacrificed 

! everybody under her roof, to have sheltered cette chere 

] tnaison from one blast of scandal. If only it could 

^ be kept secret ! But for that unlucky letter it might 

I have been. Henrietta’s friends would be more anxious 

j than even Madame St. Simon to hush up the affair, 

and no one in the school would have known the true 
version of the story. There was no hope of that now. 
The murder was out, and every chance of concealment 


152 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


gone. She was stunned, bewildered, as all this passed 
rapidly through her brain. 

Milly had expected a storm, and this heaTj’, silent, 
concentrated rage that gathered like a thunder-cloud on 
Madame St. Simon’s brow, awed her more than a hurri- 
cane of vituperation would have done. 

The mistress asked her if she had been a party to 
her companion’s flight, and Milly answered fearlessly, 
“No.” 

“You may go,” obseiwed Madame St. Simon. 

And Milly went. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


153 


CHAPTER XVII. 

L ady stanhope’s health had been so much 
benefited by her first winter at Madeira, that it 
' was considered advisable for her to pass a second there. 
This arrangement prolonged Mabel’s stay at Belle- Vue 
• from one year to two ; so it was only when the August 
vacation came round for the second time, that Sir 
John arrived in Paris and fetched his daughter home 
I to Hampshire. 

There was much merrj-making and rejoicing at 
Mabel’s return. The tenantry, marshalled like an armj^ 

of volunteers, stood waiting at the F terminus to 

escort the Baronet’s daughter to Stanhope Park, walk- 
ing on either side of the carriage like a guard of honor, 
j And a stanch and goodly guard they made, and right 

1 ^ proud was Sir John of his tenantry. They were all 

true blue to the marrow, every man, woman, and child 
of them ; true to the Church and State and the good 
old times, scorning all new-fangled notions about free 
trade and such like modern mismanagement, which tam- 
pered with things their fathers had held sacred before 
them. 

Sir John was the fourteenth baronet who had reigned 
at the Park, and he kept up the character of the old 
^ English gentleman within and without its walls. 

A courtly host and trusty friend, a just landlord and 
! a liberal master, firm and uncompromising in his notions 
of right, he was, perhaps, a trifle too stern in the exac- 
tion of duty from those around him. He was a kind 
husband, and indulgent to his wife, but demanding in 
return, blind, unquestioning submission to his will. 
He was a good father, devoted and generous, tainting 
his authority with perhaps a shade of tyranny. Mabel 


154 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


was his propert}^, to be disposed of as he thought fit ; 
educated on a })lan of his own, and to be married some 
day to a man of his own choosing. 

It was a long drive from the station to Stanhope Park, 
going, as they were, at foot pace, and Mabel w^as im- 
patient to get to* the end of it ; but it would be un- 
gracious to break into a trot and outstrip the gallant 
foot-guard, so she curbed her impatience, and tried to 
look as delighted as Sir John himself. 

Her mother had proposed coming to meet the trav- 
ellers at the terminus, but this the Baronet forbade ^in 
the most peremptory manner. It was Lady Stanhope’s 
place to wait at home to receive him and his daughter ; 
he could not hear of her doing otherwise, it would be an 
indecorous breach of etiquette ; Lady Stanhope, of 
course, submitted. 

At last they reached the Park gates, that stood wide 
open to admit the cortege. As it wound slowlj^ up to 
the Castle, Mabel could not restrain her tears. How 
calm, and grand, and beautiful the old place looked ! — 
the house crimson-tinted in the setting sun, and the 
smooth, green lawn in front dotted with flower-beds 
and spreading trees. 

“Dear, dear old home!” exclaimed Mabel, looking 
towards the drawing-room windows, wdience two eyes 
were wistfully watching, “ how glad I am to come back 
to you ! ” 

“ You’ll not be in a hurry to run away from it, Mab, 
will 3’ou?” asked Sir John. 

Mabel nestled close to her father, and looking up at 
him with a loving smile, — 

“ I’ll never leave it again, papa, never I ” 

“Na}^, no rash promises, puss}^ : 3'ou’ll be breaking 
them one of these da3’s.” 

“ No one on earth shall ever take me awa3’ from you, 
papa. Oh 1 there ’s mamma on the terrace ! do let 
me out?” 

And without waiting for his permission, she threw 
open the carriage- door, and rushed up the steps into 
Ladj' Stanhope’s arms. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


155 


Whatever Sir Jolm thought of the indecorous pro- 
ceeding, he let it pass without reproof, and following his 
daughter to the terrace, addressed a few suitable words 
to his faithful vasSals, —thanking them for their cordial 
demonstration of apBction4o his daughter, and inviting 
them to drink her health next day at the Castle. 

Mabel’s return w^ followed by visits and invitations 
from every family4n\he county. She was courted and 
admired enoygh to, '^satisfy her mother’s love and her 
father’s.^pride. I^ills and dinners were given all over 
Hampshire^ where Miss Stanhope was acknowledged to 
be the belle of the county. In fact, Mabel .w'as in a fair 
way of having her head turned, for “ all the world con- 
spired to praise her.” All earthly joj’s and blessings 
w'ere gathered round her ; there was no wish ungratified, 
no pleasure beyond her reach. The present was bathed 
in sunshine ; the future spread out before her bright 
with hope, and sorrow- proof in its promise of happi- 
ness. And yet, soon after her return home. Lady Stan- 
hope began to fancy Mabel was not happy. It could 
only be a fancy. What could a girl of eighteen want or 
wish for, that tl^e child had not? That shadow which 
fell over her face at times could only be the shadow 
of repose or thought. If Mabel had been going into 
society, away from under her own eyes. Lad}’ Stan- 
hope might have laid it down to the cause usually 
ascribed to pensiveness at eighteen; but at Belle-Vue 
there had been no damage done to her heart; Mabel 
w^onld have told her mother had it been otherwise. 
Lady Stanhope shared that sweet, motherly illusion, in 
common with all good mothers, that her daughter had 
not a thought hidden from her. 

She forgot that, in one sense, w^e are all strangers to 
one another ; that there are depths into which not even 
a mother’s eye may peer. 


156 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

M abel had been at home about six months when, 
one morning at breakfast, Sir John opened a 
letter which threw him into great agitation. 

“What a blow to his family! What a disgrace to 
the county ! One of the oldest names in it I ” he ex- 
claimed, flinging the letter on the table. 

“What is it, papa?” inquired Mabel, anxiousl}^, 
holding the cream-jug suspended over her father’s cup. 

Sir John made no answer, but stood up and leaned 
his back against the mantelpiece ; he was evidently 
much distressed by the news, whatever it was. 

Mabel put down the cream-jug. 

“ What is it, father? Who has disgraced himself?” 
she repeated. 

“Where is your mother?” he said abruptly; “go 
and fetch her.” 

‘ ‘ She ’s not coming down this morning ; she slept 
badty, and I persuaded her to have her breakfast in 
bed.” 

“ You did right,” he said more gently ; “ she coughed 
a good deal through the night. I don’t understand this 
cough of hers coming back ; I think we must have 
other advice.” 

“ Dear father, j'Ou’re not uneasy, are you?” inquired 
Mabel, growing pale as she put the question. 

“No, I hope not ; I hope not,” he repeated. 

“Oh, no!” she said, looking anxiously into her 
father’s eyes, “ mamma has hardly coughed at all lately, 
and every one sa^^s she has grown stouter. Don’t let 
such a terrible fear into your heart, father.” 

“ Pray the Almighty to' ward off such a sorrow from 
us,” said Sir John, reverently; “but there are griefs 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


157 


harder to bear than such as this, because they thwart 
God’s will even more than ours.” 

“What borrow can befall us against His will?” she 
asked simpl}'. 

“Sin, falsehood, treachery in those we love! Such 
a sorrow as this has come upon our friend Admiral 
Oldacre, through his son.” 

“Falsehood, treacheiy I ” echoed Mabel in dismay, 
“ through Herbert ! Impossible, father ! What has he 
done, that you should speak so of him ? ” 

“He has betrayed his conscience, and denied his 
God,” cried the Baronet vehemently ; “he has forsaken 
the church of his fathers ; he has turned Papist ! ” 
“Ah!” 

‘ ‘ Poor Oldacre ! it ’s a hard blow for such a sturdy 
churchman, — a hard blow.” 

“ Yes,” Mabel said in a low voice, “ the Admiral will 
feel it sorely ; but it might have been worse. If Her- 
bert had been carried home with his brains dashed 
out, like Lady Falkland’s son last winter; or — ” 

Sir John turned and fixed a stern look on her ; Mabel 
had never seen such a look on her father’s face since 
the day he told her he would shoot her with his own 
hand, if he ever found her guilty of a lie. 

“Did I hear aright?” he asked, in a tone that ran 
through her like a splinter of ice; “you so misjudge 
that English gentleman, that honest Christian, as to 
suppose that death would be worse to him than dis- 
honor ? — that he would not rather see his son dead than 
a renegade and a traitor? Is it from a Stanhope that 
I hear such a sentiment?” 

Mabel turned her face towards her father ; it was very 
white. “Forgive me, father,” she faltered, “I — ” 

“ Listen to me, Mabel,” and the Baronet walked 
close up to her; “3^011 are dear to me as my heart’s 
blood ; but if I thought \’Ou w'ould live to bring shame 
on rn}" gray hairs by such a deed as this of Herbert 
Oldacre’s, so help me God, I would rather see you dead 
at my feet ! ” and snatching up the Admiral’s letter, he 
strode hastily" out of the room. 


158 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Mabel fell back fainting in the high, old-fashioned 
chair, her head drooping on her shoulder. Duggan, 
the butler, found her still senseless when he came in 
with some hot dish. The proper person to be sum- 
moned in such an emergencj" was Mrs. O’ Dowd, his 
young lady’s old nurse ; so Duggan went hurriedl}' in 
search of her. 

Mabel awoke as O’Dowd entered the room. 

“ What’s ailing you, hone}'? ” said the nurse, stroking 
the pale cheek tenderly. “ What has happened to you, 
acushla, to take on like that? Tell your own Dowdy.” 

“Shall I go for my lady, Miss?” asked the butler, 
seeing Mabel’s eye wander round the room in search of 
somebody. 

“ Oh, I’m quite well now,” and Mabel sat up, leaning 
her hand on O’Dowd’s arm; “don’t look so solemn. 
Dowdy, I was only weak and frightened.” 

“Frightened at what, mavourneen?” 

“Oh! nothing; where is papa? Why doesn’t he 
come to breakfast?” 

“He’ll be by presently, darlint ; will I give you a 
cup o’ tea to refresh you ? Be off, you, to your business 
now ; ther ’s no more call for you here.” 

“ Thank you, Duggan,” said Mabel kindly to the 
old servant, as if in apolog}' for his unceremonious dis- 
missal ; “ pray don’t say anything in the hall about my 
fainting. I ’d rather mamma did not hear of it.” 

“ Certainly, Miss. I hope you feel all right again?” 

“Quite right, thank you; I’m going to eat my 
breakfast.” 

To make good the assurance, she sat up, and poured 
herself out a cup of tea. 

“ The Lord spare my eyesight ! if that isn’t the mas- 
ther, or his fetch, asthridin’ away down there by the 
lake ! ” cried O’ Dovvd. 

Mabel turned round, and descried in the distance 
the tall figure of Sir John, walking rapidly past the lake. 
He must have left the house soon after he quitted her, 
for it was ten minutes’ walk to the Park gate, and he 
was now close to it. She w-ent to the window, and 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


159 


stood watching him through the chestnut-trees. The 
lodge-keeper opened the gate, and Sir John passed out 
into the high road, 

“ Where can he be gone to? He has not breakfasted,” 
Mabel said, as if speaking to herself. 

“Ah then, that’s just what I’m thinkin’,” said 
O’Dowd. “ Maybe he’s gone to see afther the rector; 
he w'as poorl}^ yesterday, the post-boy told them at the 
gate, and I told the masther ; but sure there was no 
hurry for him to go fnssin’ off about it this hour of the 
mornin’ ; and he fastin’ too.” 

“He turned to the left, so he can’t be gone to Mr. 
Carston’s,” observed Mabel, musingly ; “ oh, I know — ■ 
he’s gone to the Admiral’s.” 

It was a dull, gra}’ morning. A mist hung over the 
Park, wrapping the greensward and the old trees in a 
gra}^ fog. One could hardly say whether it was raining 
or not. 

“It ’s a might}’’ queer mornin’ for him to be off to the 
Grange, and he fastin’,” observed O’Dowd; “ what did 
he want with the Admiral, I wonder?” 

“I don’t know — that is, he didn’t tell me; he 
didn’t say he was going, but I fancy he is.” 

“What makes you fancy it, honey?” persevered 
O’Dowd. 

“The Admiral has met with a great — ’’Mabel 
hesitated, “ a great disappointment. He wrote to tell 
papa of it this morning, and I dare say papa has gone 
over to the Grange to talk about it.” 

“ Sure, an’ I ’m sorry for that,” sympathized O’Dowd ; 

‘ ‘ for there ain’t a finer gentleman in the count}^, barrin’ 
the masther himself ; and Captain Herbert, too, — a 
raal gentleman, so cool and civil and qualified like. 
And what harm’s come to them, acushla?” 

“You’ll not call it harm. Dowdy,” replied Mabel, 
still looking out into the drizzly landscape ; “ Captain 
Herbert has become a Catholic.” 

“Glory be to God!” ejaculated O’Dowd, clasping 
her hands and casting a fervent look heavenward, — 
“ glory be to God I ” 


160 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Mabel turned round, and saw the honest gray eyes 
lifted up in thanksgiving and running over with big 
tears. 

“ Dowdy,” she said, “ I wonder how papa ever 
trusted you to nurse me and bring me up. Was n’t he 
afraid you ’d try to make a Catholic of me ? ” 

“The mastlier took me because he couldn’t help 
himself,” replied O’Dowd ; “ and he kep’ me because I 
would n’t go away. lady was took ill when 3*011 
was a wee thing two weeks old, and the docthers said 
she should give over nursin’ or she ’d soon be in her 
coffin, with 3*011 alongside of her. The village was 
hunted for a nurse ; but there was n’t one the docthers 
’ud give you to. I was on m3* wa3* to Southampton, 
where m3* good man and me was to take our passage for 
America, when I was taken ill up at the village.” 

“ Well, Dowdy? ” 

“ Well, hone3*,” continued O’Dowd, in a husk3* voice, 
it was as fine a child as ever a mother set e3*es on, 
and more like an angel than a baby, — so the Lord 
thought, for it had n’t seen the light fifteen da3*s when 
He took it up to heaven in a convulsion, and made a 
raal angel of it. I was ciyin’ fit to break m3* heart, so 
was Tom O’Dowd (God rest his soul), when there come 
in a docther from the Castle here, as was sent by m3* 
lad3* to see how me and the bab3* was goin’ on. When 
he saw how it was, he went back to m3* lad3* and said 
I ’d make a beautiful nurse for her own baby, if the3" 
could get me to cheer up a bit and take kindl3* to 3*011, 
and if Tom O’Dowd was agreeable. So m3* lad3* sent 
3*ou down to me to look at you, thinkin’ the sight of 3*ou 
ought to cheer me ; and sure so it did, — for 3*ou was 
the loveliest bab3*, barrin’ my own, that the light ever 
shone on. You was as white as a lil3* and as pink as 
a rose ; and 3*011 was dressed like a queen, — all in lace, 
and a long white gown, ’broidhered from tip to toe.” 

Mabel threw her arms round the faithful creature, 
and said in that sweet, childish w*a3* that encouraged 
O’Dowd to look on her still as a baby in long 
clothes, — 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


161 


‘‘Tell more about me, Dowdy.” 

“ Lord love you, sure I ’d go on tellin’ about 3*ou till 
the day o’ judgment, and there ’ud be more to tell. 
You took to me tlie moment the}’ put you into my arms, 
as if you knew’d I was going to be a mother to you. 
And I felt like gettin’ back my own child again ; for 
though you was a girl and he a boy, you was both born 
the same da''’. So the masther asked no questions 
about whether I was a Turk or a Papist, — only come 
down himself in the carriage and brought me up here as 
fine as a lady.” 

“ How nice ! ” exclaimed Mabel, as if she had been 
in doubt how the story would end. “But when did 
papa find out you were a Catholic, Dowdy ? ” 

“ Next Sunday, daiiint ; it was a Monday I come ; and 
when the Sunday come round, and they was all goin’ to 
church, the masther said he hoped I ’d pull up by that 
day week, and be able to go too. ‘ Thank you kindly, 
sir,’ says I ; ‘ but sure it’s to the chapel I’ll be goin’.’ 
‘Chapel?’ says he. ‘Are you a Methodicks ? ’ ‘No, 
sir,’ says I; ‘I’m a Catholic.’ Lord love you! — he 
turned as white as if I said I was a ghost. He was 
goin’ to speak, but my lady made a sign to you as was 
lyin’ in my lap asleep. The masther knew she meant it 
’ud be bad for you if he fussed me or gave me a turn ; 
so he just said, ‘ Well, Mrs. O’Dowd, we ’ll talk of this 
by and by,’ and went off.” 

“Was mamma as much put out about it as papa? ” 
inquired Mabel. 

‘ “Bless her, no. It gave her a start, to be sure; 
but, as she told me, she said to the masther, if I was an 
honest woman and in stout health, I ’d nurse you as well 
as the best Protestant in the kingdom. And so I did, 
and you came on bravely, an’ you was as plump as a 
puddin’ ; so it was settled I was to stay with you till 
you was weaned.” 

“ And when I was weaned?” 

“ They made believe they was goin’ to get rid of me. 
But they never meant it,” added O’Dowd, winking, 
“ no more did I. We knew the child — that was you — 

11 


162 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


’ud have got a weanin’ fit and gone up to heaven, like 
her brother ; so afther a power o’ talkin’ and discoorsin’, 
it was ordained as how I was to keep 3'ou till 3’ou went 
into frocks, — that meant when you was two 3’ear old. 
Just — as good luck ’ud have it — when the time come 
round you sickened with the measles ; and as soon as 1 
brought 3’ou through 3^ou caught the hoopin’ cough, and 
we all went to the sea for a change. You was a good 
while pickin’ up ; and though I sa3’s it that should n’t, 
if you had n’t had the best of good nursin’, 3^011 ’d never 
have picked up at all.” 

‘‘ I dare sa3^ not,” assented the nursling, compla- 
centl3\ 

“ That 3’ou would n’t, and I often said it to my lad3^, 
— not that I make a boast of it, child, but it’s the 
thruth. Well, 3’ou was four 3’ear old when the masther 
sent for me in here one mornin’. My lad3’^ was hdn’ there 
on that sofa under 3’our grandfather’s picthur. ‘ O’Dowd,’ 
sa3’s the masther, ‘ you ’ve held a responsible position 
in my establishment for the last four years,’ — that’s 
just how he began ; I remember the words as if they 
was 3'esterda3", — ‘ and Lad3^ Stanhope and I haA^e a 
great respect for 3’ou,’ says he, ‘ and we ’d be A^eiy sorry 
to part with 3^011,’ says he. I said nothing, for I felt 
^cornin’ all OA^er like pins and needles. ‘ Yes ; very 
sorry, Dowd3’,’ said m3" lad3’ ; she neA^er called me 
Dowd3" except to 3*011, and I knew she meant it friendly 
now, though somehow it sent the pins and needles into 
my throat. ‘ Who’s talkin’ o’ partin’?’ says I. '* Sure, 
you must always have some one to look afther the child, 
and who can do it betther than me? ’ ‘ Who, indeed? ’ 

sa3*s m3" lad3". 

“ Well, by degrees it came out as how the child ’ud 
soon have to be taught her prayers and her catechism, 
and that sort o’ thing, and so it ’ud be dangerous to 
have me a-bringin’ of her up an3' longer. The masther 
could n’t look me in the face, but kep’ walkin’ up and 
down Avith his hands behind his back. M3’ lady was 
makin’ belicA-e over her work ; but I knew she was ciyin’, 
and then I fell to cryin’ m3 self. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


163 


“ ‘ John,’ says my lady, dropping her ’broidher}", ‘ if 
O’Dowd gave us her word of honor never to speak to 
the child — ’ 

“‘If she did, I’d thrust her,’ said the masther, 
cornin’ straight up to me. 

“ ‘ Would you now? ’ sa^'s I. ‘ Well then, here goes ! ’ 
And I pulled out m3' beads, and swore on the cross at 
the end of them as how I ’d never spake to 3'ou o’ the 
blessed mother o’ God, or the saints, or purgatoiy, or 
the pope, while I was with 3"ou. ‘ Shake hands with 

me, O’Dowd,’ says the masther ; and ma3’be I did n’t ! 
And 3*oa know I kep’ my word, child.” 

“ Yon did, Dowd}’, like a good, honest Christian, as 
you are,” replied the 3’ounggirl with afiectionate warmth ; 
“ and I must have often tried 3^ou sorely with mv ques- 
tions. Do you remember the da}^ I pulled your rosary 
out of your pocket, and stamped and cried because 3- ou 
would n’t tell me what it was and let me have it to play 
with ? ” 

“ A}^ that I do, and many another question besides ; 
but I kep’ m3’ word, acushla, — I kep’ m3’ word.” 

“ And your husband, Dowd}’ — did he go to America 
alone?” asked Mabel after a pause. 

“ He went up afther the boy, your brother, child,” 
replied O’Dowd with a trembling lip ; “he ’ll be sixteen 
3’ears gone come next Michaelmas, — just before 3’ou 
took the measles. God rest his soul.” 

O’Dowd was silent ; and Mabel for the first time 
guessed how fresh the wound still was that she had 
laid her hand upon so lightly. She kissed the widow 
tenderly’. 

“And to think y’ou ’ve not had a bit to eat, and it 
sthrikin’ ten I ” cried O’Dowd, as the bronze clock on the 
mantelpiece chimed out the hour. “ It’s I that ought 
to be ashamed o’ myself to keep pratin’ on like that ! 
Come and take your breakfast, honey’. I must be off 
to see how the misthress is.” 


164 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


O Mabel’s surprise, Sir John did not allude again 



to tlmt scene at the breakfast-table. It was not 


that he did not think of it ; she felt certain that it had 
never been out of his mind from the moment he left the 
room with those stern words on his lips ; if lie was silent, 
it was because he had not the courage to speak, — that he 
was afraid to face the truth, to put his hand on the spec- 
tre that was standing between them. They avoided each 
other the next day, for both were conscious of an over- 
powering presence the moment they were together alone. 
Sir John escaped a tete-a-tUe with her by taking his 
breakfast in Ladj^ Stanhope’s boudoir, — an irregularity 
he had never before committed during his married life. 

Mabel felt that this state of things could not last. A 
crisis must come, and soon ; the sooner, perhaps, the 
better. The struggle which had been so long carried 
on in her own heart, with no witness but God, had now 
to be fought out externally, in the light of her father’s 
anger, his direst displeasure and distress. She had been 
fighting it in imagination ever since that terrible mo- 
ment, when under the shock of his stern threat, she had 
realized fully what the consequences were likely to be. 
Like the Christians of the earh’ church, who, while ex- 
pecting the decree condemning them to death, would 
visit the amphitheatre, and listen to the roar of the 
'beasts in the cages, so did she rehearse in spirit the 
battle she would soon be called upon to fight for the same 
cause. Eveiy hour she might be summoned to the are- 
na. How would it come about? Would some accident 
decide it, or would her father suddenly question her? 
Would they be alone, or would her mother be present? 
But the vision of that pale face, with its mild blue eyes, 
tearful and beseeching, was more than Mabel could bear 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


165 


to contemplate. “ No, no,’’ she would cry despairingly, 
‘ ‘ mamma must not be there ! ” 

It was not possible that such a conflict as this could 
go on in her mind without showing traces externall3\ 
The poor child came down to breakfast pale, and black 
under the e^’es, after a sleepless night. Self-conscious 
and embarrassed, she tried to cany off the tell-tale 
s^^mptoms under a forced gayet}" of manner, and would 
come singing into the breakfast-room, as if her heart 
were meriy. Ladj' Stanhope was deceived. Not so Sir 
John. He was watching Mabel with ej’es made sharp 
b}" fears and suspicions. 

Four da3’s went 1)3', and then, one afternoon, some 
visitors came to call on Lady Stanhope, and Sir John, 
not wishing her to have the fatigue of much talking, 
went to look for Mabel to come and help her. She was 
in the park, reading in a favorite little summer-house. 
On seeing her father, she rose at once and came to meet 
him. Instead of turning back with her as he had meant 
to do, some impulse moved him to go on to the summer- 
house. It was a pleasant little nook, made warm by the 
south sun that shone full on it. Mabel had left a book 
on the bench beside her work. Sir John mechanically 
took up the volume ; it was in French. He looked to the 
title-page and saw that it was a theological work b3" an 
Abbe . He turned over the pages, and saw a num- 

ber of pencil-marks and notes on the margin, proving 
that the book had not been taken up at chance and 
perused superficially, but carefully studied. This was 
evidence that there was no mistaking. This was terrible. 
He sat some time, a pre3" to bitter thoughts, and to 
fears that were now convictions. He waited till he saw 
the carriage of his wife’s visitors driving awa3", and then 
he took up the volume, and walked on to the house. He 
met Mabel coming out, probabl3' going back to fetch the 

; book. 

' “You left this in the summer-house,” he said, hold- 
ing up the volume, but not offering it to her. 

She blushed scarlet, and looked as guilt3' as if it had 
been a love-letter her father had discovered. 


166 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“Yes,” she said, “ I was reading it when you called 
me awa}",” and she put out her hand to take it. But 
Sir John did not give it to her ; he kept his eyes piti- 
lessly on her burning face. 

“ Where did you get this book?” he asked. 

“ 1 brought it from Paris.” 

“Who gave it to 3^011? ” 

“ I bought it m3’self.” 

“ And what business had 3’ou to buy a Romish book? 
I forbid 3'ou to read it, or anv trash of the kind.” 

Mabel made no answer, but stood, downcast and 
giiilt3"-looking, while Sir John passed on, cariying the 
book with him. They did not meet again that da}* until 
dinner, when Lad}'^ Stanhope’s presence relieved them 
both from the intolerable embarrassment of a tHe-a-tete; 
but Lady Stanhope was veiy tired, and complained of 
headache, and Sir John insisted on her going to rest 
immediately after dinner. Mabel’s heart began to beat 
with a terrible presentiment. The moment they passed 
into the drawing-room, she went to the harp and began 
to accompaii}* herself to an Irish melody that her father 
was fond of, — “ Has sorrow th}* 3’oung da3*s shaded?” 
She sang veiy sweetl}*, without an}* pretence at talent. 
He was making believe to read the newspaper, but his 
e3*es were fixed on her. It seemed to him that she had 
never before sung so sweetl}*, or looked so lovely. She 
wore a white muslin dress, w*ith pink ribbons about it, 
and a pink rose in her hair. How pure she looked ! 
“ Could anything so pure ally itself to corruption ! ” he 
exclaimed inwardly, as he gazed at her; “could any- 
thing so true be deceived by falsehood? Forbid it, 
heaven ! ” 

Sir John laid down the “Times,” and stood up, and 
paced the room. Large lamps were placed on the con- 
sols in the piers, and wax lights were burning in the 
candelabra on the mantelpiece, and the blaze of the 
pine logs on the wide hearth lighted up the colors of 
the carpet ; yet the room, from its great size and height, 
was comparatively dark. Sir John opened the door 
into the library, and went in there. Mabel went on 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


16T 


singing. At last she stopped, and after pla3dng with 
the strings, replaced the pedals, drawing out sad minors 
and modulating the chords with ever}" movement of her 
foot. She could see her father from where she sat ; the 
librar}" was in total darkness, except for the moonlight 
that streamed in through the eastern window where he 
stood ; the light fell full upon his head, silvering the gray 
hair, and making his figure stand out in brilliant distinct- 
ness amid the surrounding gloom. What a noble head 
it was ! Mabel gazed at the clear outline of the features, 
and wondered if the moment was near when the}" would 
be turned upon her frowning, resentful, implacable. Her 
head fell against the harp, and her tears dropped on the 
sounding-board. Sir John turned from his contempla- 
tion of the moonlit landscape and looked at her. 

“ Mabel ! ” he said in a low voice. 

Her heart gave a great leap. Had he seen her? 
Would he know that she had been crying? Yes, 
papa ! ” she answered, and she rose, and, humming over 
the last air she had sung, she walked bravely into the 
library. “ I think it is freezing,” she said, going up 
to the window; “I wish it would freeze hard, so that 
we might skate on the lake. The Admiral promised to 
come and skate with me as soon as it was hard enough.” 

Sir John sat down, and drew her to him, making her 
sit upon his knee. “ I believe the Admiral would skate 
on his head to please you, Mab,” he said, stroking her 
hair fondly. 

“ Dear old Admiral ! ” said Mabel, passing her arm 
round her father’s neck. 

“You ’re very fond of him, and very sorry for him, are 
you not?” 

“Yes, father, very.” 

“Child, you have need -to be; he is sorely to be 
pitied, — the more so, that he has let his heart mislead 
liim in his conduct toward Herbert; he has forgotten 
his duty, and showm culpable weakness to the young 
man.” 

“ Still, he is his son,” pleaded Mabel, twining both 
arms round her father, and laying her cheek against his 


168 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


head, — “ his only son,” she murmured in a soft, low 
voice. 

“ If your right e3^e offend you, pluck it out and cast 
it from 3’ou,” said the baronet in a cold, stern tone. 

Mabel felt a shudder run through her ; unconsciously 
she drew closer to him. Neither spoke for several 
minutes. Sir John felt that the moment he had been 
dreading had come. Mabel felt it, too. The deep 
current of her father’s emotion was flowing from his 
breast into hers. She tightened her grasp of him, for 
she fancied that he was loosening his hold of her. 
The}’ sat silent in the white moonlight, only the throb- 
bing of their two hearts making speech between them. 
At last Mabel could bear it no longer, and a stifled sob 
escaped her. 

“My God! Has it come to this?” groaned her 
father ; and his arm drew away and fell heavily at his 
side. 

“Oh, father! don’t cast me from you! Listen to 
me ! ’’ Mabel cried ; and she fell at his feet. 

He started up and moved away from her. “ Then 
my worst fears have proved true,” he said in a hoarse 
voice ; “ you are a Catholic ! ” 

Mabel made a strong effort to compose herself. 
“Yes,” she answered, swallowing a sob; “in heart 
and desire, I am a Catholic ! ” 

Sir John muttered something between his clenched 
teeth, and turned away and began to pace the room 
heavily ; while she crouched, sobbing, on the ground. 

After an interval that seemed to Mabel interminable, 
she stood up; and as he approached she said, “Fa- 
ther ! ” and would have taken hold of his arm ; but he 
pushed her from him. 

“You are no longer any child of mine!” he said; 
“you have broken my heart; you will never be my 
child again ! ” 

“Oh, father, listen to me before you cast me off!” 
she entreated; “as God judges me, I would lose my 
life rather than break your heart! But I could not 
sacrifice my soul, even for you. I could not be deaf to 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


169 


the voice of God. Oh, father ! if you knew how I have 
prayed, — how I have suffered, — you would have pity 
on me ! ” 

“ May God have pity on 3^ou ! Ma^’ He show mercy 
to 3'ou ! ” broke out Sir John ; and his voice shook, — 
“ iinhapp}’, infatuated child ! ” 

Mabel sank down on a chair, sobbing bitterly". 

After a silence that seemed long. Sir John said, 
“ You have foreseen the consequences of this act, — 
there is no need for explanations between us ; you 
know what I consider my duty, and you know I will 
not flinch from it : either 3*011 renounce at once this 
sinful folty and return humble and penitent to the faith 
of 3*our baptism, or we part forever. Make 3’our 
choice.” 

Mabel stood up ; it was an awful moment, but 
strength was given her to meet it; her courage rose, 
and she answered, — this time in a stead3’ voice, 
though it was thick with tears, — “I am ready to 
suffer and die for the true faith of the living God ! ” 

“Then so be it! From this hour there is nothing 
between us ; go 3*0111’ wav ; seek another home.” The 
words were spoken coldty, but with an irrevocable 
l^urpose that Mabel knew* it would be useless to attempt 
to move. 

“ Father, I will obey 3*011,” she said calmty ; “ but I 
will trust to 3*our love to disarm your anger ; 3*011 will 
not harden your heart against me forever. But if 3*011 
do, I will bear it dutifully, and complain only to God.” 

Sir John made no answer, but turned fi’om her and 
walked away. As he was leaving the room Mabel 
said, — 

“ May I go to mamma for a moment?” 

“ Your mother is not well ; 3*011 might have remem- 
bered it,” he answered harshty. 

“ Onty to ask her blessing — ” 

“She is not in a state to encounter any agit^ition. 
Your conduct has proved how little you value her 
blessing.” He left the library and went out into the 
hall ; and then she heard him going up the stairs. 


170 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


And so the terrible crisis had come, and all was 
over! Mabel knelt down and sent up her heart in 
an agonized prayer for help and strength and guidance. 
She could hardly' realize that she was going out of the 
house, but she knew that it was true. “ Go your wa}". 
Seek another home.” The words were distinct enough, 
— there was no misunderstanding them. Mabel had 
been schooling herself to meet some such trial ; she ex- 
pected to be banished from her father’s presence, for a 
time at least ; but she never had contemplated anything 
so cruel as this, — to be turned out of his house like a 
servant, at ten o’clock at night ! It almost seemed as if 
her father had gone mad. Mabel went uj3 to her own 
room. As she passed Lad}' Stanhope’s door, she w^as 
seized with an irresistible longing to go in and throw 
herself into her mother’s arms ; but the sound of Sir 
John’s voice arrested her hand on the door ; she could 
not risk a scene that might be fatal to that dear life. 
Was he breaking the news to her? Mabel wondered. 
But there was no time to lose. She must be going. 
She went quickly on to her own room, and locked the 
door and began to get ready. Of course she could 
take no luggage with her ; there was a silver-mounted 
travelling-bag, — Sir John’s last birthday present to 
her, — that would hold the few indisj:>ensable things 
that she could carry. She packed it hurriedly, putting 
in a few treasures, — her mother’s portrait and Sir 
John’s, their letters to her Avhen she was at Belle- Vue. 
Any jewels of value she had were with her mother’s in 
the strong-box, and Sir John had the key. Her stock 
of money was not large ; luckily, she had not been 
spending much lately ; on counting her little store, she 
found it amounted to forty pounds. It was not much 
to start on a journey with. What journey? Where 
was she going? When, in moments of gloomy fore- 
boding, the idea of having to leave home had occurred 
to IMabel, she used to think of Paris as the best place 
for her to go to, — partly because she knew it, and 
might go to Madame St. Simon’s ; and partly because 
it was a Catholic city, and she could practise her 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


171 


religion there with ever^^ spiritual help. If onlj^ she had 
liad the courage during these past months to open her 
heart to lier mother, and enlist her S3’mpathy — her 
guidance, mayhap — in the struggle that had ended in 
this terrible rupture ! 

As' Mabel packed her little travelling-bag, these 
thoughts were crowding upon her. If she could see 
even Dowdj" once more ! But Dowdy was down at 
her supper, probably. It was best so. This utter 
isolation was more bracing than tenderness or S 3 mi- 
path}', Mabel changed her white dress for a dark silk 
one and a warm cloak. She wore a hat about the 
grounds, — a beaver hat, with a feather ; she put this 
on, thinking it would be more convenient for travelling. 
And now she was ready. 

Eveiything was silent on the stairs. Onl}" the great 
clock in the hall, ticking loudly. Passing by her moth- 
er’s door, the poor child stopped a moment, dropped on 
her knees, and kissed the panel ; her heart was burst- 
ing ; she stooped down and kissed the door-mat ; her 
mother would find that kiss under her foot to-morrow. 
Then she rose up and went quickly down the stairs. 
There was no one in the hall. The great bolt was 
heav}^ to draw back ; but she succeeded, and let herself 
out and drew the door after her, making as little noise 
as she could. 

Just at this moment Sir John left his wife’s room and 
came down to the drawing-room. Perhaps he expected 
to find Mabel there ; the libraiy-door was open, just as 
he had left it ; he went in, and began walking up and 
down in the darkness. Then he went to the window 
where he had stood and called Mabel to him. Pompey, 
his dog, was bounding across the park towards the 
lodge ; Sir John saw him disappear among the trees. 
AVhat was he barking for? After a while the bark was 
turned into a wail, and the dog rent the night with his 
cries. Why did he keep on making that piteous, noise ? 

\\ Was he baying at the moon, or lamenting for the sor- 
row that had befallen his master? The strong man’s 
pride broke down, and he sobbed aloud. 


172 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XX. 

W HERE am I going to?” 

Mabel halted as she came to a hilly point in 
the road, with the wild heather stretching out on one 
hand, and Stanhope Park on the other, and for the first 
time since the Park gate had closed on her, asked her- 
self, “Where am I going to?” 

The Grange was hardly an hour’s walk from where 
she stood. Every door in the old house would open 
to welcome her ; but its master was from home ; he had 
been sent for two days ago to attend a meeting in Lon- 
don ; she could not go to the Grange in his absence. 
There were plent}" of farm-houses where she might have 
passed the night, but her pride shrank from asking hos- 
pitality, under such circumstances, of any dependent of 
Sir John’s. Had she not better go straight to London? 
It was a fine, bright night, bitterly cold, but bright as 
the brightest moon could make it. Mabel looked at her 
watch. It was past ten. The last up-train from Fox- 
ham started at midnight ; her father had sometimes 
taken it, and friends staying at the Park often did in 
fine weather. It would be a sharp walk to catch it, but 
she did not care about that. 

■ Foxham was at the other side of Stanhope Park ; she 
turned and retraced her steps, walking veiy-quickh’, 
her footfall resounding clear and loud along the road. 
She came close by the gate again ; Pompey was crouch- 
ing under it, still howling piteously. At the noise of 
her step he stopped, and set up a joyous bark. 

Mabel longed to put her hand through the iron bars, 
and pat the faithful brute ; but there was no time to be 
lost, nor what was more precious than time, courage. 
She quickened her step and ran past the gate, and a 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


173 


long wa}" farther. Then she stopped, panting for 
breath, and leaned against the Park wall. - 

It was a long walk to Foxham, and the cold was in- 
tense ; but she did not halt once again, till within sight 
of the station, when the red lamps of the train came 
gleaming through the darkness. It was twenty minutes 
to twelve. 

Mabel rested outside for a few minutes before going 
in to take her ticket. Everybody knew her, from the 
station-master to the engine-driver. It had always 
seemed quite natural for a levy of officials to rush for- 
ward, opening doors and [)lacing chairs, when she had 
gone to Foxham with her father or Lady Stanhope ; but 
it distressed her unspeakably now, all this civility. 

They stared at her so ; she had never seen the Fox- 
ham people uncivil before. It was a great relief when 
at last she found herself alone in the carriage. 

The train reached London at half-past three. 

Mabel called a cab at the Victoria station, and de- 
sired the man to drive to the Arundel. She had stopped 
there often with her parents. Her appearance at such 
an hour, with no luggage, unattended and unannounced, 
was too extraordinar}' not to cause both surprise and 
curiosity. But she was respectfully welcomed, and 
treated with as much deference as if a suite of servants 
had come with her. It was no affair of the Arunders, 
what Miss Stanhope’s business might be in London. 
Her father honored the hotel with his patronage, and 
his daughter had a right to its best services. 

Mabel was shown to a handsome bedroom. She 
wanted no refreshment, — “except sleep,” she added 
mentalh\ But there was little chance of her getting 
any that night. She threw herself, without undressing, 
on the bed. It was pleasant to rest after that long 
walk and the three and a half hours’ journey in the 
train. 

By and b}^ the lids drooped, and she fell asleep. 
When she awoke, the clock was striking seven. 

She started up. The strange bed, her travelling- 
dress that she had slept in ; what did it all mean ? 


174 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


She struck a light hastily, and plunged her face into 
a basin of cold water. Tlie shock refreshed her. She 
felt faint, and a little hungiy, but it was too early to 
ask for an3'thing to eat ; she would wait till some stir 
in the adjoining rooms gave her courage to ring for the 
chamber-maid. It was not long till the rattling of cups 
and saucers caught her ear. She opened the door, and 
saw a waiter taking in a tra}^ to one of her neighbors. 

“ Will }’ou be good enough to send me some break- 
fast,” she said to the man. 

The breakfast was brought, and Mabel ate with more 
appetite than she could have believed possible. 

And now where was she to turn her steps? She 
knew there was a Catholic convent in Kensington. 
Olga Czerlinska had given her a commission for a friend 
there when she wms leaving Belle-Vue, and she remem- 
bered the address, for Sir John had had some trouble 
in finding it out. She put on her hat and cloak, and 
resolved to go there and ask the nuns for advice and 
protection. 

She rang and ordered a fly. It never occurred to 
her that a cab would be less expensive, and conse- 
qnentl}' more suitable to her present finances. Poor 
child ! she had more things than economy to learn in 
her battle with life, but perhaps no lesson harder or 
more unpalatable. 

It was the first time Mabel had ever spoken to a nun, 
and she felt a little nervous when the door opened, and 
the Superior made her appearance. But her timidity 
was soon put to flight b3" the unafiected kindness of 
Mother Angela. 

She heard our heroine’s story without interrupting 
her. It was simpl3^ told, and in few words. 

Her object in troubling the reverend lad3^ wms, first, 
to ask instruction as to how she was to be received into 
the Catholic Church, and then, to request her advice as 
to the best step to be taken in her new career. The 
first question was easily answered, the second required 
more thought. 

“ I know nothing of Paris,” observed Mother Angela, 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


175 


when Mabel had unfolded her plans, “ but it seems to 
me hardl}" a desirable place for one so young, and cir- 
cumstanced as you are. Have you any friends there? 
Where do 3"ou intend going when j'Ou arrive in Paris?” 

“ To Madame St. Simon’s, where I was at school. I 
count very much on her. If she cannot employ me as 
English governess in her own liouse, I have no doubt 
she will be able to procure me lessons.” 

“ Oh, that makes all the difference ! ” replied Mother 
Angela; “ with such protection as that, you will have 
nothing to fear.” 

This point settled, it was arranged that Mabel should 
spend two or three days at the convent to prepare for 
the solemn act she was about to accomplish before pro- 
ceeding to Paris. 

Mother Angela advised her to w^ite to Sir John 
Stanhope, and tell him what she intended doing ; it 
w'ould liardl}" be dutiful to leave the countrv without his 
knowledge and consent. Then the good nun thought 
it more than probable that he might call her back to 
him, or at least forbid her putting a still greater dis- 
tance between them. 

Mabel shook her head when Mother Angela hinted 
at this possibility. 

You do not know my father,” she said with a 
mournful smile. “ He would lav down his life for me ; 
but not to save mine, would he forego one iota of what 
he believes to be his dut^'.” 

“ Then 3'OU must pra3^ imceasinglv, my child, that 
God ma3' enlighten him as to what his duty is,” said 
Mother Angela. 

She alluded to the chance of Lady Stanhope’s influ- 
ence softening her husband towards his child, but Mabel 
burst into such uncontrollable grief at the mention of 
her mother’s name that Mother Angela laid her hand 
tenderly on the girl’s head, and left her alone to wrestle 
with her sorrow^. 

It wms the kindest thing she could do. After a time, 
Mabel recovered herself, and sat down to write. Her 
letter to Sir John was firm, but affectionate and dutiful. 


176 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


She asked his blessing, and his forgiveness for the pain 
she was causing him ; told him how kindly the sisters 
at Kensington had received her, and concluded by stat- 
ing her intention of going to Paris, where she would 
place herself under Madame St. Simon’s protection, till 
some other course was open to her, provided alwa3*s Sir 
John did not disapprove of her leaving England. She 
said nothing about her intention of earning her bread. 
In the first place, she feared it might be construed into 
a desire to show herself independent of her father, and 
in the next place, she did not believe he would leave 
her in a position to make it necessary. She was pre- 
pared, however, for the worst. If he chose to make 
povert}’ a portion of her punishment, she would bear 
it courageoush’. For the present, she merel\’ informed 
him that she had sufficient monej' to defraj- all her 
immediate expenses. 

To her mother she wrote at greater length. The 
paper was covered with blots and stains. It was writ- 
ten as much with tears as wnth ink. Poor child ! she 
might have spared herself that half-hour’s extra an- 
guish. Lad}' Stanhope never saw the letter. Sir John 
considered it his duty to consign it to the flames of the 
library-fire, and spare his wife the pain of reading it. 

The}' passed quickly, those three days of seclusion 
and peace. Mabel was thankful for them. The calm, 
prayerful atmosphere of the convent rested and strength- 
ened her, and braced her for the struggle on which she 
was entering. It seemed to her that no battle could 
dismay her after that which she had fought. She had 
realized one sacrifice that her conversion might involve, 
and that had been made. What did the rest signify ? 

She knew not, in her untried courage, how the 
strength which has borne us triumphant through a great 
battle, may sometimes betray us in a petty one, long 
protracted. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


177 


CHAPTER XXI. 

M eantime indescribable confusion and disma}^ 
reigned at Stanhope Park. Mabel’s depart- 
ure was not discovered until the next morning, when 
O’Dowd knocked at her door for admission, opened 
it and saw that the bed had not been slept in. 

It was the nurse’s habit to come and bid her good- 
night ; but Lady Stanhope’s indisposition had occupied 
O’Dowd till late on that eventful evening, and when 
Mabel’s own maid went to her door at half-past ten, 
she was not much surprised to hear no answer bidding 
her “ come in.” 

So it came about quite naturally that her disappear- 
ance was not known until the next morning. Sir John 
at first refused to believe she was gone ; and when the 
fact was made certain be3’ond any doubt, his grief and 
despair were terrible. He had never dreamed of order- 
ing her out of the house. He was not sure of the words 
he had used ; he had meant to frighten her, to threaten 
her with banishment from home if she persevered in her 
sinful wa^'wardness, but to turn her out of his house in 
■ the dead of night ! Good God ! the child must have 
! gone mad to suppose him capable of such a thing, 
i And he had now to break the news to her mother, — to 
inform her at one and the same time of Mabel’s apostasy 
and of her disappearance. Beside himself with grief, 
anxiet}’, and remorse, he went to Lad}' Stanhope, and as 
gently as he could he told her the truth. Now for the 
I first time he discovered what strength there lay under 
his wife’s gentleness ; she who had never gainsaid him 
in anything, who had looked up to him as her true 
. lord and master, now rose up like a lioness robbed of 
her young, and upbraided him with such passionate 
^ 12 


178 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


wrath and grief that he was cowed and crushed before 
her. The sight of his anguish, however, soon touched 
and appeased her ; the}’ wept together, and took coun- 
sel of one another. 

For nearl}^ forty-eight hours they were in total igno- 
rance of everything except the fact that Mabel had taken 
the midnight train to London. Then came her letter 
telling them she was at the convent, and that she meant 
to go to Madame St. Simon’s. The relief from the in- 
tolerable suspense of those two days was unspeakable ; 
but it was followed by a sudden reaction in Sir John’s 
feelings. Since Mabel had taken this violent step, let 
her abide b}’ it ; let her bear the punishment she had 
doubly brought upon herself ; let her be exiled from her 
home for a time, at least. 

It was not so easy to bring Lady Stanhope to take 
this view of the case, but Sir John used all his influ- 
ence to convince her that it was the best course. Mabel 
had committed a grievous sin, and brought disgrace 
upon her family ; her soul’s salvation moreover was at 
stake, and it behooved them as Christian parents to 
make ever}" sacrifice in order to bring her to repentance. 
A great lesson must be taught to her, and they must 
not let their tenderness stand in the way of their duty. 
Sir John urged all this, and Lady Stanhope came 
gradually to assent to his judgment and decision. 

The Baronet had next to deal with O’Dowd ; and this 
was a more difficult task in one way, for the reason 
from which Lady Stanhope drew her courage for sever- 
ity was no reason at all to O’Dowd. She cried and 
laughed all at once, — scolding Sir John, and blessing 
Providence by turns. “Sure, an’ it’s a great day for 
us all!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands; “ th’ 
angels is makin’ merry over it in heaven, an’ th’ arch- 
angels is playin’ tunes, fit to send th’ Apostles dancin’, 
St. Pether an’ all ! ” 

Both master and mistress were too w'ell acquainted 
with her ways to be either angry or astonished at the 
tone she took. Her first idea was, of course, to start 
off after ^‘the child.” But Sir John put his veto on 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


179 


this. Mabel was in a convent, where her wardrobe 
would be forwarded to her. 

“Oh, then, that’s good news!” cried the nurse. 
“ She ’ll be looked afther, an’ made a pet of, bless her I 
But sure, she ’ll want some one to mind her all the same, 
and to see to her little duds, the darlint! Won’t I be 
off to her at the convent? ” 

“ Lady Stanhope is in need of your care at present, 
Mrs. O’Dowd,” replied Sir John; “she cannot do 
without 3'ou, and Miss Stanhope can.” 

“ Ah then, now, an’ isn’t it a shame for 5’ou, sir, to 
be ‘ missin” your own child like that?” broke out 
O’Dowd resentfuil}^ 

“ You will allow me to be best judge of my own 
speech. There is a point which even privileges such as 
yours may not pass,” observed the Baronet, and left 
the room. 

The mother and nurse remained alone, discussing 
what was to be sent to Mabel. Her wardrobe was too 
well supplied to make any new additions necessaiy, so 
the trunks were despatched that evening to Kensington. 

She had said, in her letter to Sir John, tliat her 
purse was well filled for the present, and the Baronet 
announced his intention of forwarding her a blank 
check on his banker for aiw future wants. He ap- 
proved of her proposed journey to Paris, which would 
be in reality bringing her nearer to him than if she 
remained in England ; but he forbade both his wife and 
O’Dow'd to write, or hold any communication with her 
until such time as he deemed fit. Their silence must 
be a mark of his displeasure, and a part of her punish- 
ment. 

Lad}" Stanhope accepted the inevitable, and having 
once accepted it made no unavailing complaints ; but 
the shock brought on an alarming hemorrhage from the 
lungs, and the medical men ordered her to be taken 
out of England without an hour’s more delay than was 
absolutel}’ necessary. Four days after Mabel’s depart- 
ure her parents were on their way to Italy. 


180 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXII 


HE steamer ploughed its wa}^ across the Channel. 



X The breeze was fresh, and the sea rough ; but 
although the deck was wet, Mabel preferred it to the 
shelter of the close, crowded cabin. 

She kept her place near the helm, watching the pilot 
as he steered the vessel through the heavy, chopping sea, 
and gazing at the waves as the}^ ran away from the 
ship, leaving a silver trail behind them. She w^as the 
only lad}' on deck, almost the only one on board. 
There were several women downstairs, but there was 
not one whom she felt drawn to speak to. They w^ere 
for the most part milliners and maids, — the former going 
to replenish their stock of bonnets and caps, the latter 
to look for situations. There were two or three gentle- 
men in mackintoshes, lolling over the sides of the 
steamer, and puffing cigars. One enterprising individual 
made frantic efforts to keep his footing on the slippery 
deck, catching at the steersman or the chimney, or 
whatever came in his way, till finally his legs threatened 
to bring his head in contact with the floor. This catas- 
trophe was at one moment so imminent that Mabel 
gave a little scream, which attracted his attention. He 
made his way by short tacks across to where she was 
seated. 

“ Von diable bad passage. Mademoiselle,” he began, 
sitting down by the young lady, who had evinced such 
flattering nervousness on his account. 

“ Oui, Monsieur,” she replied shortl}", and looked out 
towards the horizon. 

“ Vous etes Fran9aise?” cried Roly-poly. 

“ Non, Monsieur.” 

“ Sapristi ! but you speak French like Mademoiselle 
Rachel. You have been educated in France?” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


181 


“ Oui, Monsieur.” 

“ Diable ! if it were not for your peau blanche and 
your golden hair, you might pass for a Fran^aise nee. 
Perhaps you were born in France, eh ? ” 

“ Non, Monsieur,” was again the laconic reply. What 
did this vulgar man mean by his insolent curiosity ? 

“ Non, Monsieur; oui. Monsieur,” muttered the vul- 
gar man internally; “can the belle petite say nothing 
more? — Your father and mother are on board, no 
doubt,” he added aloud. 

The blood rose to Mabel’s cheek. “ Non, Monsieur ; 
je snis seule ! ” 

He read grief rather than pride in the trembling lip 
and sudden flash of her eyes. 

“ Pardon, Mademoiselle, je comprends.” 

The Frenchman raised his hat, and bowed low before 
the orphan. He troubled her with no more questions, 
and by and b}", balancing himself dexterousl}' with his 
umbrella and the parapet railing, he resumed his gym- 
•nastics up and down the deck, plunging to the right and 
to the left, slipping backwards and forwards, but always 
holding his ground. 

Mabel was no longer in a mood to be amused by his 
evolutions. She understood the meaning of his sudden 
change of manner. It touched her, but she did not 
care to undeceive him. Her thougiits, in spite of her- 
self, went back homewards. She had resolved they 
should not, and had kept them down with all the 
strength of her resolute will ; but a gentle word, a kind 
look from a stranger, had shattered the rickety gate to 
pieces. She leaned over the railing, and her tears fell 
into the brine below. It did her good to cry. She had 
been keeping in those tears till they burned and scalded 
her heart. 

The little Roly-poly cast a glance towards the beau- 
tiful orpheline every now and then. He saw the sobs 
shaking her figure, and the tears streaming down the 
fair, pale cheek, left bare b}" the round Spanish hat. 
“Poor little one! I have pained her; I am un anU 
mal!'''^ he muttered in self-reproach. 


182 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


The steamer was making into port. The cabins 
emptied themselves on to the deck ; all was bustle and 
excitement. The pier was crowded with eager faces ; 
signals were made to those on board, and answered by 
waving of hats and handkerchiefs. 

Mabel sat quietly watching it all. 

The little roh’-poly man kept his eye on her. Evi- 
dently she expected no one to meet her. 

“ Pauvre petite ! elle a le coeur gros,” he thought. 

Nothing daunted by his recent snub, he went up to 
her, this time with less jauntiness in his manner, and 
holding his hat in his hand. 

“ If I can be good for an3’thing to Mademoiselle, I 
am at her orders,” he said respectfull}’. 

“Thank you,” Mabel replied; “I want nothing, 
except a cab when we land. I shall be veiy much 
obliged if }^ou will get me one.” 

“ Paifaitement,” bowed Rol^’-poh* ; “ et les petits 
paquets de Mademoiselle ? ” 

“ I have nothing but this,” pointing to the travelling- 
bag on her arm. “ My luggage is registered on to 
Paris.” 

The passengers were nearl}’ all landed. 

Mabel and her guardian, as he had constituted him- 
self, walked up the narrow gangway. 

“ Sta}^ here. Mademoiselle, while I call a JiacreN 
He was back in a minute, handed Mabel into the cab, 
jumped in after her, banged tlie portiere., and cried to 
the coachman, “ Au chemin de fer ! ” 

It was all done so rapidly", Mabel had no time to 
protest, if she had been inclined to do so, which she 
was not. It was very good-natured of this stranger to 
take care of her, and save her the trouble of running 
out among the crowd to shout for a cab. 

The}" were soon at the station. The Frenchman 
insisted on her taking a houillon. 

“Nothing stands to one like the bouillon^” he 
declared ; “ cela a'ous remonte le moral.” 

The twent}^ minutes’ halt was over, and the train, 
puffing and snorting, moved on. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


183 


Roly-poly had ensconced himself in the same carriage 
with Mabel, putting her in the snuggest corner, and 
wrapping his railway-rug round her feet. 

JBon gre., mal gre., she had to submit. He did not 
want it, and Mademoiselle looked cold. It was all 
done so simply, so bluntly, that Mabel had no pretext 
for repelling his civility. There was not a tinge of 
gallantry in the stranger’s manner. She was alone, 
2)attvre enfant ; he would be un animal if he did not 
offer her his services. 

Whether he would have been quite so ardent about 
it if the enfant had been an ugl}^ one, w'e cannot say. 
But it is only fair to give the little Frenchman the 
benefit of the doubt. After a time he pulled his hat 
over his eyes, and fell asleep, and Mabel was left to 
her reflections. She was glad there was some one w'ho 
w^ould be kind to her wdien she reached Pails. The 
little man snoring in the corner would see to her 
luggage, and put her safe into a cab. 

It was not quite right, perhaps, to leave him under 
the impression that she wms an orphan ; it seemed like 
stealing his kindness under false pretences. But to 
undeceive him must force from her an amount of confi- 
dence she shrank from volunteering to a stranger. 

“ Deja ! ” cried the sleeper, jumping up, as an 
official shook him roughl}-, and demanded his ticket. 

“Enfin!” murmured Mabel, with a sensation of 
relief. 

“.Where can I see 3"ou to. Mademoiselle?” asked 
her companion, folding up the rug that had done her 
good service on the road, and throwing it over his arm. 

Mabel hesitated. The station clock w'as striking 
half-past eleven ; it would be past midnight before 
her luggage was visited, and delivered over to her. 
She could not disturb Madame St. Simon at that hour. 
Meurice’s was the onl}’’ hotel she knew of; Sir John 
and Lady Stanhope had stopped there when they 
brought her to Paris. • 

“To the hotel Menrice, if you please,” she said 
after a moment’s reflection. 


184 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


The Frenchman had her luggage secured on the top 
of a fiacre., and desired a commissionaire to take his 
own portmanteau to a cafe close by the station. 

Mabel inferred from this that he was’ going to 
accompany her. 

‘‘No, Monsieur,’^ she interposed gentl}^, but impera- 
tivelj" ; “ I cannot suffer 3'ou to come so far out of your 
w^ay at this late hour. I have given j'ou too much 
trouble alread}^” 

“Peste ! ” exclaimed Roly-poly, “ if all trouble were 
like that, ‘ Vive la peine ! ’ would be my motto, in- 
stead of ‘ Vive le plaisir ! ’ But if 3’ou insist, I must 
submit. Bon soir. Mademoiselle, and if j'ou should 
ever want a devote.d slave, you will remember Paul 
Tourniquet.” 

“ Adieu, Monsieur, et merci mille fois,” said Mabel 
warmly. 

The cab rattled aw^ay, and left her sometime guar- 
dian bowing and bobbing after it on the trottoir. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


185 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

ABEL was landed with her baggage at Meurice’s, 



where her presence created even more sur- 


prise than at the Arundel. She was shown to a 
handsome apartment on the first fioor, and after that 
unfailing comfort of every true-born Briton, a cup of 
tea, lay down for the night. 

She slept soundly, without awaking once till the 
dapper little bonne came in with the hot water next 
morning at eight o’clock. Then she dressed herself, 
and sat down to her breakfast before a wood-fire, in 
the spacious salon adjoining her bedroom. But the 
excitement and fatigue of the last four daj’s were begin- 
ning to tell on her ; her head ached, and she felt 
unequal to the least exertion. 

“ I must go to Madame St. Simon’s early,” was her 
reflection, as she sat sipping her tea; “but, oh, if I 
could but lie down, and stay quiet for to-day ! ” She 
pressed her hand tocher forehead ; it was hot, and her 
temples throbbed. 

The maid came in from the bedroom, and saw her 
leaning with her arm upon the table, before the un- 
touched meal. 

“Mademoiselle has no appetite for her breakfast?” 
inquired the soubrette. 

“Thank 3"ou, no. lam too tired to eat; 3’OU can 
remove the things.” 

“ Cette petite cotelette a pourtant une mine bien sedui- 
sante ! ” observed the girl, as she carried it awa3^ 

Mabel threw herself on the sofa, and tried to realize 
her position. 

It had never entered her thoughts that Madame St. Si- 
mon would not receive her graciousl3’, rejoice in her con- 
version, and give her all the assistance in her power. 


186 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


It occurred to her to write and ask the lady to come 
and see her at the hotel, — she was so tired and wear}’’ 
the idea of shaking across the town in a cab made her 
shudder; but perhaps the mighty Juno might resent 
this as a liberty. After all, it did not much signify for 
one day. It would be better to rest, and not run the 
risk of knocking herself up, and falling ill at Belle-Vue. 
The weather was intensel}’ cold ; the snow lay deep on 
the ground, and the air had that thin, piercing sensa- 
tion peculiar to Paris cold. 

Mabel made up her mind not to stir out till the next 
da}^ The morning passed wearil}*. At tw^elve o’clock, 
the waiter came to take Mademoiselle’s orders for 
dinner. 

It did not signify. Mademoiselle said ; whatever was 
convenient ; she had no fanc}’ for anything. 

The man withdrew, leaving the “Times” and the 
“ Morning Post” on the table. 

Mabel took up the “Post,” and glanced carelessly 
along its columns: “Fashionable intelligence. — Arri- 
vals in London. — Sir John and Lady Stanhope at the 
Arundel, en route for Ital^', where her ladyship’s health, 
it was hoped, would derive benefit from the climate.” 

Mabel let the paper drop from her fingers. Gone to 
Italy ! Gone without a word to her ! She might learn 
it at hazard from a newspaper. It could not be ! Yet 
a moment’s reflection told her how natural it was ; nat- 
ural that her father should have taken Lad}" Stanhope 
away at a moment wdien change was as necessary to 
mind as to body ; natural, likewise, that he should have 
gone without informing her of his departure. 

“ Henceforth, Mabel Stanhope, you are no child of 
mine ! ” 

The words still rang in her ears. No longer his 
child ! Why then should she expect to know whither he 
bent his steps, or wherefore ? Had she not banished her- 
self from his heart and from his hearth ? Mabel walked 
np and down the room, crying bitterly. That news- 
paper paragraph had done more towards making her 
realize her position than those last four days of action 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


18T 


and suffering. She was an alien from her parents ; 
their paths lay henceforth wide apart ; they might go to 
the farthest end of Europe or of Asia, and she need not 
know it. Her father had cut off his right hand, and cast 
it from him ; the wound had healed on the maimed arm, 
it seemed, but the cast-off hand bled on in its agon 3 \ 
Well, be it so! She would bind it up as best she 
could, and in time might perhaps grow callous to the 
pain. 

A great sob broke from Mabel as she uttered this 
brave resolve aloud to herself 

She sat down shivering before the fire. The basket 
of wood was burned out, and she rang to have it replen- 
ished. The waiter brought a fresh supply, threw several 
logs on the smouldering embers, and withdrew. 

Mabel sat wanning herself, and watching the blaze 
catch block after block of the dry fuel. She remembered 
that once, on looking over his bill there, her father had 
made some passing remark on the enormous expense of 
firing in Paris. For the first time since she had left 
home, it dawned upon her that, as her purse could no 
longer count on its old resources, it would be well to 
draw in the strings a little tightly. It ma^" seem strange 
that so obvious a fact should, practical!}", have escaped 
her notice so long ; 3 'et that it did is equall}" obvious 
from the unreflecting way in which she drew on her small 
stock of mone}^ , She had not spent a shilling except on 
actual necessities ; the idea that these could have been 
lessened by" any choice or discrimination of hers never 
once occurred to her. If the route she came by- hap- 
pened to be the most expensive, she knew of no other ; 
there were more hotels in London than the Arundel, but 
how was she to find them out ? Then it could not have 
made much difference. The bill was a mere trifle ; she 
had handed the waiter a five-pound note, and he brought 
her back a quantity- of change. 

On leaving home Mabel had only- forty- pounds in 
her possession, but slie had often been without forty- 
pence, and it had given her no more anxiety than when 
the decanters on her father’s table were emptied ; there 


188 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


was plenty in the cellar to fill them again. But now 
the cellar was locked ; when the wine had run out where 
was she to get more ? ^ 

“I was mad to come here!” she thought, looking 
round the luxurious room, with its bangings of crimson 
damask, and tables and cabinets of buhl. “1 did not 
ask for such rooms,” she added in vexation, “ wh3’ did 
the}* put me here I ” There was no use, however, fret- 
ting about it now. 

She went to bed early, and rose next day feeling more 
like herself. Immediate!}^ after breakfast she took a fly 
at the hotel, and drove to Belle-Vue. 

A new portress received her at the gate. This was a 
disappointment to begin with ; she had expected a wel- 
coming face, and met a blank one. 

“ Oui, Madame St. Simon etait chez elle.” 

Mabel went on to the visitors’ entrance, and met, not 
Fanchette, but another strange face. 

“ Would Mademoiselle give her name?” 

Miss Stanhope gave it, and stood waiting in the square 
salon^ looking at the lustre she had helped to hang there, 
and the same drawings that for 3*ears had spoken to ad- 
miring strangers of the talent of Belle-Vue’s pupils, and 
the success of Belle-Vue’s teaching. 

The boudoir door opened, and Madame St. Simon, 
in the identical tenue she had worn when we last saw 
her, came forward to to greet Mabel. 

“ Chere enfant!” she cried, pressing the j’onng girl 
to her heart, “quelle ravissante surprise; but 3*011 are 
not alone? Where is Sir John, and milad}*, charmante 
milad}^ ? ” 

“I am alone, dear Madame St. vSimon,” replied Ma- 
bel. “Will \’ou let me come to 3*ou, and make my 
home here ? ” 

‘ ‘ Comment ! — if I will let 3*ou ! Dear child, my heart 
is as that of a mother towards 3’ou. Come in and tell 
me all about it ; 3*ou have some chagrin., I can see.” 

She kissed the fair cheek, that was paler now, but as 
beautiful as ever, and putting her arm round the 3’Oi^ng 
girl, drew her into the boudoir. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


189 


Nothing in the room was changed, least of all, its mis- 
tress. Madame St. Simon looked just as when we parted 
with her, — the same raven-black hair, drawn tightly back 
from the cold, sallow brow ; the same green eyes, keen 
and bright; the trim, linen collar; the Medusa on the 
cameo, fierce and stony ; the black silk dress as fresh in 
its rich simplicity as when Mabel, now nearly three 
3 ’ears ago, first stood before the school-mistress in her 
sanctum sanctorum. It was not without an effort that 
she suppressed her emotion as she sat down upon the 
green velvet couch where she had pleaded for Miss 
Jones, and pleaded in vain. 

Madame 8t. Simon slipped oflT the pretty- beaver hat, 
and took the girl’s hand in her own. 

“ Maintenant,” she said, “ faites-moi vos confidences ! ” 

And Mabel made them franklj", exaggerating nothing, 
disguising nothing. She had become a Catholic ; her 
father was naturally’ incensed at what was little short of 
a crime in his eyes, and she had been obliged to take 
the consequences of her act. She had come to Paris with 
the intention of earning her bread. Would Madame St. 
Simon employ her as English teacher, or was Miss La- 
vinia still at Belle-Vue? No, Miss Lavinia was gone; 
and there was another in her place, too satisfactoiy to 
be dismissed ; but Mabel should come to Belle-Vue as a 
guest. Was she not at home there, and welcome to its 
mistress as a daughter? 

Mabel was veiy grateful, but she could not accept the 
hospitality" on those terms. Her purse was badly stored, 
and she could not look to Sir John for any future allow- 
ance. 

This, Madame St. Simon pooh-poohed as mere enfan- 
iillacfe. Le bon Sir John might be a little feroce at first, 
but he could not live long without his pretty Mabel ; he 
would call her back, and they would live happily ever 
after. “ And papa will be grateful to me for taking care 
of his pet,” was the mental conclusion. 

“ Alas ! I dare not hope it,” sighed Mabel. “ I have 
offended my" father beyond all chance of forgiveness.” 

“ Then, chere petite^ why do you not return to the 


190 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


good English Church? Entre nous., what difference 
does it make, after all?” 

Mabel opened her eyes in mute wonder. 

“ J[/« foi^ all the churches are good when we obey 
them,” continued the large-minded theologian. “ The 
hon Dieu is good ; He made me a Catholic and you a 
Protestant, — why should we not remain as He made 
us ? ” 

“ But if we know that we are wrong, and He gives us 
/ light to see the truth?” urged Mabel in increasing 
amazement. 

“ Where is the truth?” queried Madame St. Simon, 
with a shrug of her shoulders that said all a French- 
woman’s shrug can sa3\ “ Pilate asked the question 
two thousand years ago.” 

“ Yes,” replied Mabel, her face kindling ; “ 3’es, and 
he turned away without waiting for the answer ! Oh, 
Madame St. Simon, do not think lightly of that price- 
less jewel which God has given you ! The faith that 
you prize so little, I would lay down my life rather than 
forfeit ! I have pra3"ed for 5’ou with m}^ whole heart,” 
she continued ferventl}", “ because, after God, it is to 
3’ou I owe that blessed gift. It was here, under 3’our 
care, that I first began to see the errors of m3' father’s 
creed, and to divine — ” 

I must disclaim 3’our gratitude on that score, m3^ 
dear,” said Madame St. Simon, abrupt! 3’ cutting her 
short. “ Nothing was farther from me than the wish 
to shake 3’our religious opinions.” 

“ True,” replied Mabel, “3’et I must trace the result 
to you, Madame ; it was in the churches of Paris I first 
imbibed the truths of Catholicit3\ Had 3'ou not al- 
lowed me to go there, I should be a Protestant to-da3\” 

“ What ! ” said Madame St. Simon, her e3’es flashing 
as Mabel had never seen them flash before ; you have 
said this ! You have dared to say that it was under 
m3' care you became a Catholic ! You have slandered 
m3' house and m3' name by spreading such a report! 
Leave my house this moment, Mademoiselle, and never 
dare to enter it again ! I will write to Sir John Stan- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


191 


hope ; I will tell him the share I had in your conversion, 
and congratulate him on his daughter’s turning esprit 
fort/’’ 

“ I have done 3*011 no harm, Madame St. Simon,” 
answered Mabel ; “ I have — ” 

“ Sortez ! ” cried the Frenchwoman, and with a 
movement worth}' of Roxane, she pointed to the door. 

Mabel stood up, and feeling that an}' attempt at ex- 
planation was useless, left the room. 

To say that she was stunned would give an imper- 
fect idea of her feelings as the gate of her old school- 
home closed behind her. Was Madame St. Simon mad, 
or was she mad herself? Yes, Mabel certainly was 
mad the day she counted on Madame St. Simon for one 
generous emotion, one act of womanly kindness, free 
from self-interest. She knew the school-mistress was 
selfish and heartless ; she knew her to be unjust when 
her temper or her avarice got tlie better of her, — but 
she believed, with the ingenuous trust of youth, that, 
whatever her faults might be, a woman’s a woman 
for a’ that.” She remembered the Frenchwoman’s 
protestations when her “ chere Mabel” left Belle-Vue 
to return home. How she pressed her to her heart, 
and vowed she could not love the more tenderly 

if she had been her own child. All this Mabel had 
thought of many a time, under the chestnut-trees at 
Stanhope Park, when she mused over the future and the 
resources it held out to her. But what was the chere 
petite to Madame St. Simon now? No profit could 
come of befriending her, and harm might. If it got 
abroad that young English girls intrusted to Madame 
St. Simon’s care w*ere allowed to turn Papist in her 
establishment, what damage it might do cette chh'e 
ynaison ! and if she harbored the renegade, it would be 
equivalent to pleading guilty to the slander. No, Miss 
Stanhop'e might take herself elsewhere. The gii’l was 
headstrong and haughty ; Madame St. Simon had been 
forced to bow before her once, — but things were differ- 
ent now. 

Mabel went back to the hotel. There were numbers 


192 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


of gentlemen dawdling in and out of the coffee-room, 
and about the court-3^ard, — more than one on the watch 
to steal a glimpse of the beautiful English girl, about 
whom the most romantic stories were current in the 
house. ' 

Mabel, unconscious of the curiosity" she excited, but 
shrinking from the looks of too undisguised admiration 
that were cast on her b\’ the loungers, walked hastilj" 
upstairs to her own apartment. One thing was now 
clear to her : she must leave this hotel at once. Where 
was she to go ? An^^where fate or Providence led her ; 
but she could not sta^" here. 

The waiter was bringing in her dejeuner as she 
entered the room. Mabel had given no orders about it, 
but the gargon., seeing the drive in, had darted up 
the back stairs with a traj^ on his head, laden with good 
things. 

She sat down to the w^ell-served table, and thought 
to herself that unless the world came to an end, and so 
took matters out of her hands, this should be the last 
meal she partook of there. Her position was growing 
worse ever}’ hour she remained in these costly rooms. 

Still she felt neither low-spirited nor frightened ; she 
was gaining strength as difficulties thickened around 
her. The first step towards lessening them was to 
secure some cheap lodging where she could stay till she 
found employment, either in giving lessons, or as gov- 
erness in a family. Where she was to look for either 
one or the other was 3'et to be ascertained ; but the 
world was wide, and she was in God’s keeping. 

She put on her hat and cloak again, and this time 
on foot, sallied out in search of a lodging. There 
were several yellow boards up in the neighborhood or 
the hotel, but she did not push her search be^^ond the 
conciergds lodge. The rents were exorbitant. Sud- 
denlj" it occurred to her to hunt out Miss Jones. The 
governess had written several times to her within the 
last 3'ear ; she had changed her address twice ; but the 
last letter was dated from the Batignolles. Mabel had 
no more idea where the Batignolles la3’ than a Chinaman 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


193 


landed from Kiang-ku ; but she was beginning to sur- 
mise that walking w^as less expensive than driving, and 
economy must be practised in little as well as great 
things. 

She inquired the way at a stationer’s, and nothing ' 
daunted b}^ the assurance that it was a full hour’s walk 
from where she stood, set out in the direction given. 
She had some difficulty in discovering the Rue St. Louis, 
for it was an obscure little street ; but she found it at 
last, and went on to the house, — a decent enough look- 
ing house, better than she had expected to find Miss 
Jones in. The concierge' s lodge was very dark ; but 
Mabel could see a woman busy cooking, and a man 
lolling in a high-backed chair, with his legs crossed, 
reading the newspaper aloud. 

“ Does Miss Jones live here?” demanded a soft voice 
at the window. 

“ Non ! ‘ et le peuple Fran^ais ayant a coeur la gloire 
et — - 

“ Pardon,” interrupted Mabel again ; “ can you tell 
me where she does live ? ” 

Cerberus, without disturbing his comfortable posture, 
raised his eyebrows above the newspaper, and so brought 
his glance on a level with the window. Had it fallen 
upon an old woman, or perhaps on an}’ foe less pro- 
pitiating than the one before him, his answer would have 
been such as the intruder’s impudence deserved ; but he 
was a man and a Frenchman, and la3’ing the ‘‘Consti- 
tutionnel” on his knee, he looked at the fair face, and 
his brow relaxed. 

“ Non, ma gentille dame. Miss Jones did live here ; 
but she left us a month ago,” he said civilly. 

“ And she did not leave her address?” 

“ Non, ma petite dame.” 

“And how do you manage about her letters?” in- 
quired Mabel. 

“ IMiss Jones never had a letter but once all the time 
she was here. If she expected another, she ’d call for 
it.” 

This was not very encouraging. Mabel was turning 
13 


194 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


awa}^ when a board against a window looking on the . 
conrt-3'ard attracted her attention. 

“ You have lodgings to let?” she said. 

“ A votre service, madarae, if 3’ou would like to see 
them.” 

Are they expensive?” inquired Mabel cautiously. 

“Bon marche comme I’ennui, et un vrai bijou d’ap- 
partement! ” affirmed the woman, coming forward with 
a saucepan in one hand and a wooden spoon in 
the other; “ salon, salle-a-manger, chambre-a-coucher, 
cuisine, antichambre, tout complet, cent francs par 
mois.” 

Mabel said, if it were not inconvenient, she would 
like to see the bijou. 

Monsieur Grosjean put down the “ Constitutionnel,” 
uncrossed his legs, and begged her to follow him. 

The bijou was on the third story of a small pavilion 
situated in the court. 

The3" ascended the stairs together. Monsieur Grosjean 
took the ke3’ from his pocket and opened the door. 

“Voici I’antichambre ! ” he announced, as Mabel fol- 
lowed him into the small entry. 

“ How dark it is ! ” she exclaimed, not daring to ad- 
vance lest she should stumble against something. 

“Oh, no!” protested Cerberus, groping for the 
handle of the salle-a-m.anger door ; “ c’est que Madame 
ne voit pas claire. One has onlv to open this door, and 
one sees a merveille. Void la salle-a-manger ! ” he con- 
tinued, as they entered the small room, — with one dis- 
mal window, a table in the centre, and four chairs 
ranged against the wall. “ There is the stove, Madame 
sees ; there is not a stove in Paris that draws better. 
Void la cuisine!” he went on, opening another door, 
and bowing to the smutt3^ fourneau., that was full of 
ashes since the last tenant’s departure. “ Madame sees 
there is a window, and a view that is as good as a coun- 
tiy house in summer.” 

Mabel went to the window, and descried above the 
court-yard wall the tops of the tw'O lank, snow-sprinkled 
trees. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


195 


“ That view,” pursued M. Grosjeaii, “ is the delight 
of all the locataires. If Madame saw it in the month 
of Ma}^ ! — c’est d’une gaite folle ! ” 

Passing through the salle-a-manger., they came again 
into the antechamber. Cerberus opened a door to the 
left, and ushered his visitor into a room with two win- 
dows, looking on the yard. “ Et voici le salon!” he 
exclaimed triumphantl 3 \ It was a square room, with 
ga}' chintz furniture, and crisp, white muslin window- 
curtains, — a pleasant, cool little room in the sultiy 
weather ; but on this cold December da}^ it looked miser- 
ably^ chilly^ and comfortless. The polished floor was 
slippery as ice, and to Mabel’s half-frozen feet it felt as 
cold. It certainly had the merit of cleanliness, — it 
looked freezingly^ clean ; the bleak, white curtains looked 
frosty and clean ; the atmosphere of the house was 
cleanliness and frost. 

“And the bedroom, — y’ou have not shown me the 
bedroom,” she said to Monsieur Grosjean. 

“ Madame y^ est ! ” replied the concierge., with a sweep- 
ing bow to the door and windows of the little salon. 

Mabel cast about in vain for some sign of a sleeping- 
apartment. “ But this is the salon^^’’ she said. 

“ Ah, voila ! ” and Monsieur Grosjean with a chuckle 
put his finger to his nose, — “ voila le secret ! ” 

Pushing aside two chairs that were placed against a 
folding-door opposite the window, he invited Mabel to 
turn the handle. She did so, and to her surprise beheld 
a small iron bedstead within, and in the corner beside 
it an iron washing-stand, holding a basin on the top 
and a jug suspended between its legs. 

“ The bed in the cupboard ! What a funny idea 1 ” 
she exclaimed. 

“ Pardon, Madame, an alcove is not a cupboard,” 
corrected Monsieur Grosjean respectfully. “ When 
Madame shuts the doors she has her salon ; when she 
opens them, Madame has her chambre-a-coucher^ — rien 
de plus commode ! ” 

The arrangement struck Mabel as so comical that she 
laughed. 


196 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Monsieur Grosjean hesitated whether to laugh with 
her or get angry ; but there was so much child like 
mirth in the young girl’s face and manner, such a total 
unconsciousness of any offence taken or given, that 
Monsieur Grosjean thought better of it and laughed 
too. 

“Dame, que voulez-vous ? ” he said, shrugging his 
shoulders and lifting his greas}^ berette to scratch his 
head; “one does what one can. The walls are not 
made of caoutchouc ; one cannot stretch them, one must 
combiner pour le mieux.” 

“ It does not much signify,” Mabel said, after hear- 
ing the man}' advantages to be found in this particular 
combination ; “I shall have no visitors while I am 
here. Is this the apartment Miss Jones occupied?” 

“ Oh, no, Madame ; Miss Jones inhabited one of the 
chambrettes off the staircase. There are two gentilles 
little rooms, — one for the bonne of au prernier., and 
one for au deuxiemeP 

The information gave Mabel a pang. It was Belle- 
Vue over again with poor Miss Jones. 

“ Madame has no bonne?'’’' inquired Grosjean. 

“ No ; I quite forgot that. What am I to do about 
it, I wonder? Perhaps 3'ou could find me somebody? ” 

“ Que Madame se tranquillise ! Madame mon epouse 
will be happy to serve Madame.” 

“ That will do nicely. Will she be kind enough to 
buy all I want, and to see to the cooking, and so forth?” 

“Tout ce que Madame voudra !” promised Cerberus, 
thrusting his hands significant!}' into his pockets. 

The hint was lost on Mabel. She never even inquired 
on what terms she was to be done for so obligingly by 
Madame Grosjean. 

“Madame is English ?” observed the concierge.^ as 
they groped their way down the steep stairs. 

“ Yes ; and I am Mademoiselle, not Madame.” 

“ Tant mieux, tant mieux pour quelqu’un ! ” ex- 
claimed Monsieur Grosjean jocosely. 

“Can I have my things brought here at once?” 
Mabel asked when they regained the lodge. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


19 T 


“ Ob, non, Mademoiselle, not till to-morrow morning. 
The chimney-sweepers come precisement to-morrow at 
eight, and it would be impossible for Mademoiselle to 
be here while they are at work.” 

This was a disappointment. The delay at Meurice’s 
would entail so much extra expense. However, there 
was no help for it. 

“ Must I see the landlord?” she inquired. 

“ I have the honor of pi-eseriting him to Mademoi- 
I selle,” replied Monsieur Grosjean, doffing his herette 
before her. 

“ I am concierge par decant^'* pointing to the large 
house on the street, ‘‘ and Monsieur Grosjean, landlord, 
j par derriere?'' 

“ Then to-morrow at twelve I become 3’our tenant. 
You will have a fire in the salon., please.” 

“ Mademoiselle may count on it,” said the concierge. 

Mabel wished them good-morning, called a fiacre.^ 
and was soon back in the Rue de Rivoli. 

Next morning her bill was brought in by the waitei*. 

Apartment, dinners, breakfasts, wood, light, and at- 
tendance during two'da3’s and two nights, two hundred 
and fifty francs. 

She had not the slightest idea whether this was un- 
reasonable or moderate. It was a large sum to pay out 
of her small fund ; but she paid it without comment or 
protest. 

Then she counted out her little store of mone3^ and 
found that her forty pounds had dwindled down to 
i twent3’- three pounds and some few shillings. 


‘198 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


OLD, sharp, and bitter was that December morn- 



ing when Mabel took herself and her belongings 
from the comfortable hotel to the lodging in the Rue St. 
Louis. The concierge had done her best to make it 
wear a look of welcome. There was a good fire in the 
little salon^ and a 'pot-au-feu simmering in the kitchen. 
Madame Grosjean thought Mademoiselle would like 
a bouillon. What a cup of tea is to an P^ngiish- 
woman, a bouillon is to a Frenchwoman. 

Mabel thanked her housekeeper for her kindl}’ fore- 
thought. She busied herself for a couple of hours in 
arranging her clothes in a pretty meuble that served as 
an ornamental cabinet or a clothes-press, according as 
the room served for bedroom or salon. 

At three o’clock Madame Grosjean came in to know 
if Mademoiselle had her own linen and plate. 

“Linen and plate!” echoed Mabel in surprise. 
She had never thought of such a thing. 

“Then would Mademoiselle hire it of Madame 
Grosjean ? ” 

There w^as no alternative; towels and table-cloths, 
and knives and forks, w^ere not luxuries to be dispensed 
with. 

“I shall be obliged if j’ou can suppW me with what 
is necessaiy,” she answered after a moment’s reflection. 
“ Will it be veiy expensive ? ” 

“Oh, a mere trifle. Mademoiselle. Monsieur Gros- 
jean is so reasonable. He is like a father to his loca- 
taires. Mademoiselle will see ! ” 

With this consoling assurance, Madame Grosjean 
went off to fetch the necessaiy articles. 

A small stock of wood was piled up in the salle-a- 
manger. It w^as the cleanest sort of fuel, and as Mad- 


MABEL stanhope: 


199 


emoiselle was alone she would find it easier to manage 
a wood-fire than an}^ other, prudent Madame Grosjeau 
said. 

The first day passed quickly enough, what between 
the novelty and the busy occupation it induced. 

The next morning, Mabel had her cafe au lait com- 
fortably prepared by the landlady, and brought to the 
salon, of which she made a general sitting-room. The 
dining-room was like an ice-house, and economy forbade 
the expense of two fires. She sat looking over some 
books that Dowdy had packed with berthings, — French 
and German works. As the}^ were on the child’s dress- 
ing-table, and in a foreign tongue, Dowdy concluded 
they were Catholic books, probably prayer-books. 
Mabel arranged them on the centre-table, and contrived 
to give the frosty salon a look of life. 

The snow had fallen heavily all night. A sleety rain 
was melting the thick white carpet, and turning it into 
a mass of mud and slop. She looked despairingl}" out 
of the white-curtained window into the court-yard. 
There was no possibility of stirring out till the weather 
cleared. 

O’Dowd had sent a paint-box ; but Mabel had neither 
board nor paper, else she might have spent the long, 
wet day in painting. 

This was the resource on which she counted most. 
Pier drawings had been seen bj^ competent judges, who 
pronounced them full of talent. She remembered that 
one distinguished painter (in his earh’ career a ijrotege 
of Sir John’s), after bestowing praise on a cop3" of one 
of Canaletti’s sea-views, exclaimed : “ What a mistake 
that you should be an heiress instead of an artist ! It 
is a thousand pities so much talent should be thrown 
awa3%” She had laughed at the time, never dreaming in 
her bright present how the future might give her cause 
to remember the compliment, and cling to it. 

Two da3's passed, and after a protracted struggle 
the weather cleared and the sun shone out. Mabel put 
on her hat and went down, and asked the concierge to 
direct her to the Rue Ro3*ale. 


200 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ Ma foi ! it ’s a good long step from this,” observed 
Monsieur Grosjean, drawing his hand across his mouth, 
and looking down at his feet; “ a good long step, and 
in the mud, unless Mademoiselle has boots as sound as 
sabots^ it ’s a great risk to undertake it.” 

“I must undertake it, Monsieur Grosjean;” she 
replied cheerfully, “cabs are too dear: I can’t afford 
them.” 

‘ ‘ Tenez ! ” suggested the concierge.^ ‘ ‘ wh}’ not take 
the omnibus? It will land 3’ou just at the spot.” 

Drive in an omnibus ! It w'as almost as funny as 
the bed in the cupboard. The suggestion had been 
given in all simplicity, without the remotest idea of im- 
pertinence ; but though Mabel said nothing, the slight 
raising of the dark eye-brows did not escape the quick 
e3’e of the Frenchman. 

“ Pardon et excuses. Mademoiselle,” he said, pulling 
at the tassel of his oil3’ skull-cap, “ but the Batignolles 
omnibus is tres Inert compose. Miss Jones always took 
it. Never saw la bonne mees put her foot in a cab once 
during the two months she stayed in 1113’ house.” 

“Oh, I am ver3’ much obliged 'to 3*011,” answered 
Mabel, blushing ; “it was A’ery kind of you to yiropose 
the omnibus ; but as I have never been in one, I should 
feel a little frightened. I prefer walking if I can find 
my way.” 

‘ As Mademoiselle likes ; but for six sous she can 
ride behind a pair of good horses, with coachman and 
valet de pned., instead of trotting through the mud.” 

Monsieur Grosjean bowed, and Mabel passed on into 
the street. 

And if Miss Jones travelled in an omnibus, why 
should she be above doing it? She w*ould be J^Iabel 
Stanhope, if she travelled in a wheelbarrow or a ped- 
ler’s cart ; and there could be nothing improper in riding 
in an omnibus, or Miss Jones would not have done it, 
no matter how urgent her necessities. While Mabel was 
making these reflections, the omnibus came rolling down 
the street. She stood till it came within reach, and 
signed to the coachman to stop ; the powerful horses 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


201 


were drawn in with a jerk, and gathering up her skirts 
as best she could, Mabel picked her steps through the 
mud, tripping gingerly on the biggest paving-stones. 

‘‘Allons, depechons-nous ! ” grumbled the conductor. 
The new-comer reached the door ; he caught her by the 
elbow, shoved her in, jerked the check-string, and off 
went the omnibus, swaying heavily from right to left 
under the sudden impetus. 

Mabel stood, helpless^ holding on to the rod above 
her head. She could see no vacant spot to sit down in. 

‘‘ Vo_yons ! ” cried the conductor gruffly'. “You can’t 
stand all the way there.” 

“Then let me down, there is no room for me,” she 
said, looking back imploringly at the man. 

“Yes, there is; I wouldn’t have picked you up if 
there was n’t. There is a seat beside ce monsieur; ” 
and he pointed to a red-faced man in a blouse, with a 
large basket on his knee. “Push on to the seat; it 
won’t walk to you,” suggested tlie conductor curtly. 

She did push on, ^blushing and trembling like a cul- 
prit. There were two gentlemen at the entrance of the 
omnibus, but instead of assisting her in her embar- 
rassment, the3" seemed to enjo}" it. No one made way 
for her, except the red-faced monskur in the blouse. 
He swung himself into the end seat, leaving his own 
to Mabel, and so saving her from facing in full the two 
long lines of occupants. 

“ Cela ne sent pas bon,” he said hrcetiousl}', touch- 
ing his basket, and changing it to his right knee, so as 
to bring it farther from his pretty neighbor’s nose. It 
was fish, apparentlj', and the aroma was not pleasant. 
Mabel felt mortified and frightened. Evidentl3^ the 
people were laughing at her ; she had no business to 
be there, they thought. She thought so, herself. 

They stared at her rudel3'', especiall3" the two w^ell- 
dressed men at the entrance. The women e3'ed her 
suspiciousl3y looking at each other, and then staring 
at her dress. Presents she pulled out her watch, a 
prett3^ Geneva one, with her initials iii brilliants on the 
back, and a variety of jewelled knick-knacks dangling 


202 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


from the chain. The women nodded to each other, and 
the men stared harder than before. 

“ AVhat a pretty watch!” exclaimed the owner of 
tlie fish-basket, as Mabel slipped the watch into a 
diminutive pocket at her side ; ‘ ‘ too pretty to wear in 
an omnibus,” he added, with an expressive wink. 

Mabel looked up at the honest face. “ I have no 
other,” she answered naively. 

The omnibus stopped. ‘•‘Nous y sommes ! ” cried 
the red-faced man gleefulty. 

Mabel did not stir. 

“ Nous y sommes ! ” repeated her neighbor, hoisting 
his basket and waiting for the young lady to proceed. 

“ Thank j'ou,” said Mabel, drawing up her silk skirt, 
and making wa}’ for him to pass out ; “I am going on 
to the Madeleine.” 

“The Madeleine ! ” repeated the man in amazement. 

“ Yes ; does the omnibus not go so far?” she asked 
with a look of alarm. 

“ Si fait, a great deal farther, — ^.in the opposite direc- 
tion. You have got into the wrong one ; we are at 
Montmartre ! Conductor, wh}^ did 3^011 tell Madame 3*011 
went to the Madeleine ? ” 

“Who says I told her?” demanded the conductor 
. indignaiitty. 

“Then 3*ou ought to have told her — I mean, that 
3*ou did n’t go. You must take that green one down 
there, ma petite dame’’ he continued to Mabel, helping 
her out. ‘ ‘ Ask for a correspondence ; it will take 3*011 
to the Madeleine. Another time,” he added good- 
humoredh*, “don’t embark without asking where your 
ship is bound for.” 

“Wh3* didn’t Madame ask?” put in the conductor, 
anxious to right himself. “ It ’s not m3^ fault if people 
can’t use their tongue or their eyes. Why, it’s written 
on the sides as large as life,” he continued with surty 
pertinacity; “it costs nothing to read it.” 

Mabel felt called on to sav something in self-defence. 
Everybod3* was looking at her, and the conductor was 
talking at the top of his voice. 


MABEL &TANHOPE. 


203 


“ I don’t know Paris,” she said, her cheeks glowing 
with shame and vexation, “I thought all the omni- 
buses went to the Madeleine.” 

Sapristi ! laughed the conductor, mollified by 
the ingenuous avowal. 

Some of the women tittered contemptuously, as 
Mabel tried to extricate herself from the gaping crowd. 
She walked on a little wa}" in hopes of being able to 
cross the street lower down. The first omnibus was 
moving off. Several aggrieved parties were protesting 
energetically against some unfairness ; the^^ should have 
been taken up ; the}" had been waiting longer than 
others ; there were their numbers. One voice came 
clear above the rest ; it was neither shriller nor louder 
than the others, but it had a peculiarl}" distinct tone, 
and a rich, English accent. It was a woman’s voice. 

“ Que voulez-vous, Madame,” argued a man with a 
brass band on his hat, “yours did not answer.” 

“ Pardong, Moshu, I did answer.” 

“ Mais votre numero ne repondait pas!” insisted 
the man. 

“Mon numt^ro! ah, je ne comprong pas; c’est un 
idiome.” 

Mabel started. No, she could not be mistaken ; that 
must be Miss Jones. And Miss Jones it surely was. 
If an angel had dropped from the skies, neither could 
have been more overjoyed at the meeting. 

“My darling child! Where have you come from? 
What are you doing here?” questioned Miss Jones 
eagerly. 

“ Oh, let us take a cab and get home. I’ll tell 3'ou 
all presently.” 

A fiacre^ on the lookout for a customer, came saun- 
tering by. Mabel stopped it. 

“ I am going to the Rue Royale,” said Miss Jones, 
hesitating. “ Perhaps you were going in an opposite 
direction, dear? ” 

“ I wanted to go precisely there and she jumped 
in after her friend. 

Miss Jones kissed her again and again. 


204 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


What a jo3"ful surprise this is, darling ! but tell 
me all about it. How long have you been here? And 
how do I happen to find 3’ou by yourself? ” 

Mabel took Miss Jones’s hand in her own two, and 
looked wistfully into the dear, inquiring face. It was 
paler and thinner; the cheeks had shrunk in, showing 
the long, projecting teeth more and more. There was 
want in the lank, flabb3’' jaws ; want in the sunken gray 
eyes, that shone out now with a flash of happiness from 
their cavities circled with black, and telling all too 
plainl3^ of toil and suffering. Mabel gazed at the face, 
and burst into tears. 

“ M3' darling ! what is this ? What sorrow ? Have 3'ou 
lost ? — ” But Mabel was not in mourning. What could 
it mean ? She was sobbing as if her heart would break. 
Presently she controlled herself and grew calm, and look- 
ing steadily at Miss Jones, “ Would anything make 3'ou 
cast me off?” she said. “ Is there anything that would 
make you turn from me? Do you love me well enough 
to forgive me anything wrong that I ma3' have done ? ” 

Miss Jones’s pale face turned gray. 

“ Miss Jones, I am a Catholic ! ” 

A pale flush rose over the pallid cheek ; Miss Jones 
opened her arms, and Mabel flung herself into them. 

“ M3' poor child,” the governess said, pressing Mabel 
to her heart, “ a sorrow that I had never dreamed of! 
Have 3'OU left home on account of it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How long have 3'ou been here?” 

“ Onh' a few da3's.” 

Then Mabel gave the history of her conversion, her 
struggle, and her sacrifice ; her arrival in Paris, her 
disappointments, and her hopes. 

“ You must tell me where to get lessons,” she said, 
after briefly explaining her resources for the present. 
“I know nobody in Paris: not a soul. How did 3'ou 
get pupils when 3'ou left Bclle-Vue? ” 

“ M3' first was one Monsieur I’Abbe procured for me. 
He has been a kind friend to me. I wonder it did not 
occur to 3'Ou to apply^ to him.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


205 


“ It did occur to me ; but, in the first place, I did 
not know his name, — we always called him Monsieur 
TAbbe ; in the next place, I was not sure whether he 
was still at Belle- Vue, and if I directed my letter to the 
Awnoiiier, it might have gone to a stranger, or worse, 
into Madame St. Simon’s hands ! ” 

“ And you counted on her helping 3'ou ! But we had 
better not speak of her. May God forgive her ! She 
is in need of light, poor woman ! ” 

“Not light onl}", but heart and conscience!” ex- 
claimed Mabel impetuoush^ 

“ P’orget her, m3" child, as I dOvOr pra3’ for her. But 
about these lessons ; what kind of lessons did 3'ou think 
of giving?” 

“ Painting, chiefl3". You remember I was first in the 
atelier at Belle-Vue, and I have improved a good deal 
since I left. Then there is the harp and piano ; I think 
I could conscientiousl3* undertake to teach them, — and, 
of course, English and French. But the drawing les- 
sons would be better paid, I fanc3".” 

“ I hope so, dear. The difflcult3’ is, where to find 
pupils.” Miss Jones knew something of it. 

“ In London, people find them at the libraries. When 
we were there last season. Bullfinch recommended an 
Italian master to mamma, and they spoke so highly of 
him that she engaged him at once for two months. 
Suppose we tiy first at the libraries?” 

Miss Jones knew too well how little was likel3’ to 
come of the tiying, but she had not the heart to discour- 
age her friend. After all, this young creature with her 
beaut3’, and her talent, and her bright hopefulness, might 
succeed where she had failed. 

“ Well, suppose we try the booksellers,” assented 
Miss Jones, after some deliberation. 

“ Can you come with me now?” inquired Mabel. 

“I’m afraid not, dear. I have a lesson in the Rue 
Tronchet. Unless 3’ou could wait till it was over; but 
where could 3*011 stay ? ” 

“In the "Madeleine!” suggested Mabel brightly. 
“I’ve not been into it since I came.” 


20 C> 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


“Nor I, since we were there together. Alas! Ma- 
bel, it was in an evil hour yon first entered it. I will 
not reproach yon, my poor child ; but what a pang this 
is to me, God only knows ! ” 

“ Reproach me ! no, yon must not ; 3’ou would not if 
yon knew what it has cost me. But the prize was worth 
the pain, even if it were to last all my life ! ” 

The dark e^’es shone with a light full of joy, and of 
the peace that comes of sacrifice. 

It was a sad marvel to Miss Jones how this spirit, so 
pure and true, should have fallen into error and dark- 
ness. It might be only as a trial, and to some wise 
purpose. So prayed the simple-hearted Protestant. 

The}^ got down at the Madeleine. Miss Jones went 
round to her lesson, and Mabel ascended the wide steps 
of the church. Her heart was lighter than it had been 
for man}’ a day, as she fell upon her knees and lifted it 
up in pra3’er. She could have spent an hour so ; but 
many minutes had not elapsed, when a light tap on the 
shoulder caused her to look up. It was Miss Jones. 
Mabel rose and reluctantly followed her. 

“ M}^ pupil was out,” said Miss Jones, “ so I should 
have had m3’ hour’s walk for nothing, if 3’ou had not 
saved me the journe}- on foot. It is a lesson lost ; how- 
ever, I don’t regret it.” 

“ How do 3’ou mean, a lesson lost? Does your time 
count for nothing? Surel}’, the}’ would not bring 3^ou 
out a day like this, and let you take such a long walk 
for nothing?” 

“ It seems the}^ wrote last evening,” replied Miss 
Jones, “telling me not to come; but the first delivery 
is at nine, and I am out since eight, so I missed the 
letter.” 

“ Wh}’ do you come out so early?” inquired Mabel, 
“ it ’s hardl}’ light at eight o’clock these dark mornings.” 

“ I have a lesson at half-past eight. It takes me 
half an hour to walk to it from mv lodging.” 

“ Where is your lodging,” asked Mabel. 

“ Close to where 3’ou met me at Montmartre. It’s a 
long wa}’ out of town ; but it ’s convenient on account 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


207 


of the omnibuses being so near. I treat myself to a 
ride now and then,” she added, smiling, as if the three- 
penny ride wxre a piece of extravagance that required 
apology. 

“ How courageous you are, dear Miss Jones,” said 
Mabel, looking up with such admiration in her face 
that Miss Jones could not help laughing. 

“ I got into one this morning,” Mabel went on, “ and 
I thought I should have died before I got out of it. 
Such a smell ! And the people were so rude ! They 
stared at me as if I had ten heads. Nothing would 
have indViced me to do such a thing, but Monsieur 
Grosjean told me 3^011 often rode in omnibuses, so I 
knew there could be nothing improper in it,” she added, 
with a look of inquirv at Miss Jones. 

“ I’m not sure of that, Mabel ; it’s ver}* improper to 
be poor. But how did 3*011 happen to see m3* old friend 
Monsieur Grosjean this morning?” 

“ I am his tenant and Mabel explained how it had 
all come about. 

“ The3* are decent people, so far as I know of them,” 
observed Miss Jones. “I am sorr3* I did not sta3^ 
there ; sorrier now than ever.” 

But can’t you come back? If they have no room 
vacant, you can stay with me. Oh, please come, do ; 
we should be so happy together, and I ’m dreadfully 
lonely all by myself ! ” 

It was hard to resist the pleading of the sweet, up- 
turned face. 

“ My darling, I cannot,” Miss Jones answered re- 
gretfully ; “ I left the Rue 8t. Louis on account of this 
lesson at half-past eight. I could not possibly continue 
it at that distance, and it ’s a good lesson ; fift3* francs 
a month for two hours eveiy day.” 

“ Have 3^ou a great many lessons? ” asked Mabel. 

Not as many as I should like ; but the great point 
is to have them as much as possible in the same neigh- 
borhood. I have two others at Montmartre, in the 
afternoon twice a week, and the one I have been to 
just now.” 


208 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ Are they all as badly paid as the eight o’clock one ? ” 
inquired Mabel. 

Miss Jones smiled ; the wretched pittance was hand- 
some compared with the others. “Poor child, she will 
find it all out by and by. Let her hope while she may,” 
thought the teacher. “ One of the afternoon lessons is 
in exchange for a French one,” she said, evading Ma- 
bel’s question about the payment ; ““I found my French 
was growing rusty for want of exercise, and while one 
has the opportunity for improvement, it ’s a pity not to 
take advantage of it. Here we are at Grinaldi’s. I 
am to ask for drawing lessons first? ” 

“ An}’ kind, every kind ; but I should prefer pupils 
for drawing. Landscapes, mind,” whispered Mabel, 
holding close to her chaperone as they entered the 
library. 

There were several people there ; some peering into 
the book-cases along the walls, others looking over 
books at the counter. Mabel was debating whether 
any of them were eligible for her requirements. 

An old man, seated behind a desk, looked over his 
spectacles at the two ladies, and laid down his pen. 
Miss Jones went up to him. 

“ You have been kind enough to take down my name, 
as a teacher of English,” she said, bending confiden- 
tially over the desk. “• I shall be much obliged by your 
doing the same for my young friend. She wishes to 
find tuitions in painting, — water* colors and oils. Are 
you occasionally applied to for such things ? ” 

“ Very frequently by the teachers; seldom or never 
by the pupils.” 

A flush of disappointment rose to Mabel’s cheek. 

“ AYhere do the pupils apply?” asked Miss Jones. 

The white-haired old man looked keenly at the young 
artist for a moment. He was accustomed to receive 
applications like the present every day and all day long, 
especially from his own countrymen and women ; but 
this was a specimen he had not yet met with. He could 
hardly believe it possible that the young lady before 
him, with her brilliant beauty, her stately bearing, and 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


209 


elegant attire, could be one of the ill-advised adventu- 
rers who come swarming over to Paris, asking for tui- 
tions as if they were as plentiful as flies, and to be had 
for the asking. 

“ Is the artist strictly professional, or an amateur?” 
he asked, looking at the governess. 

“lam an amateur,” replied Mabel timidly. 

“ A very superior one,” put in Miss Jones. 

“ So my friends say,” observed Mabel, blushing. 

“ Have 3’ou any specimens that I could see, and judge 
for myself?” inquired the old gentleman bluntly. 

“ No, unfortunately, not one. I left home in a 
hurry.” 

Mabel stopped short. 

“Then you did a very foolish thing, young lad3\ 
You might do a wise one bj" going home in a greater 
hurry than you left it.” 

Miss Jones saw Mabel’s lip tremble. “ What a brute 
that man must be ! ” she thought. 

“ It was no friend’s counsel that brought 3^011 here,” 
continued the brute, talking pointedly at Miss Jones. 

“It was necessity brought her,” said Miss Jones; 
“ she could not help herself.” 

“Do 3'ou expect she’ll help herself better here 
than at home?” demanded Mr. Grinaldi querulously. 
“It’s madness, that’s what it is!” and the old 
gentleman pushed his hand through his hair with a 
sudden vehemence that sent his spectacles spinning on 
the desk. “It’s worse than madness!” he went on, 
refixing the glasses on his nose, “ I call it a crying 
sin. You come flocking over here, to a strange place, 
among strange folk. Perhaps 3’ou have friends in 
Paris? No! of course not. You come over expecting 
to pick them up in the street ; to find pupils waiting for 
3'ou at the terminus ; to have more lessons than 3^011 
can make time to give ; and, instead of this, you find 
more teachers in the market than learners. By and by 
comes want, and debt, and — well, well, it ’s no use 
talking of colors to a blind man. You ’ll never believe, 
till you come and see and suffer for yourselves. Wh3" 

14 


210 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


did YOU not advise this foolish j'oung lady against the 
step?” he demanded sharpl}" of Miss Jones; “you 
ought to know something of it by this time.” 

“ I was not aware of her coming,” replied Miss Jones ; 
“ but she has ten chances of success to one of mine. 
She is thoroughly competent to teach painting and 
music, and — ” 

“ So are scores of others,” broke in Mr. Grinaldi 
impatiently. “Have you ever copied from the old 
masters?” he asked abruptly of Mabel. 

“ I have done nothing to speak of in heads,” she 
ansTvered despondingly, “any ability I possess is for 
landscapes.” 

The librarian looked at her through his blue spec- 
tacles. He had meant all he said in kindness. She 
interested him. Miss Jones was not wrong when she 
said Mabel had ten chances of success to one of hers. 
The old man had spoken vehementl}’, brusquel}-, pre- 
cisely because his heart was full of pity. He knew too 
well what that beautiful girl had in store for her, and it 
made him wrathful against her, against everybod}^ 
Her wet e3'elashes smote him. 

“I dare say you think I ’m a brute,” he said, leaning 
forward, his arms crossed. 

“ No ; I thank 3'Ou for telling me the truth.” 

“Well, that shows 3^011 have some sense; onh^ it 
does n’t show much sense to cry about it. Tears don’t 
mend matters. Have 3’ou copied an3^ Claudes, or 
Hobemas, or Cuyps? ” 

“Claudes, 3^es, and Canalettis ; very little of an3" 
other school.” 

“ Well, just take 3'our paint-box to the Louvre, and 
set to work on one of the Claudes, whichever 3'ou fancy 
most; and when it’s done, bring it to me, and I ’ll see 
if we can’t sell it for you. As to the lessons — I ’m 
afraid it ’s a bad case.” 

“ If I can find employment in painting, I should 
infinitel3^ prefer it,” said Mabel. 

“ Well, we’ll see. Mind, I promise nothing, so don’t 
let that make you rest on your oars. Look about 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


211 


you, and 3^011 may pick up a lesson. Where have you 
tried?” 

“ Nowhere except here. I don’t know where to try.” 

There was sometliing so toncliing in the simplicity 
with which she said it, such child-like helplessness, that 
the old man, in his compassion, waxed wrathful again. 

“It’s a wonder to me the press doesn’t take it up 
and tr}" and put a stop to it,” he grumbled ; and the 
spectacles narrowly escaped being tilted over a second 
time. “ It-’s a case for the ‘ Times ’ to interfere. What 
in mercy’s name do you all come rushing over here for? 
It would be better for you to staj' at home, if 3’ou had 
to take in washing ! ” 

He rattled his pen in the ink-stand, till the ink 
squirted up on his hand. “Suppose you leave me 
j'our name and address ; not that it’s an}' use as far as 
the lessons are concerned, but I ma}" as well have it.” 

Mabel gave both. 

The librarian wrote something -on a slip of paper, 
and handed it to her across the desk. 

“ Call in there when 3'ou happen to be passing b}*, 
and sa}' I sent 3'ou. Don’t expect anything to come of 
it; but there’s no harm in trying. Whatever you do, 
don’t fret,” he added emphatically; “faint heart, you 
know, ^ ” and with a friendly nod, he bade them good- 
morning. 

Mabel was the first to speak when they found them- 
selves in the street. Miss Jones dreaded the reaction 
that must ensue from this her first trial of the realit}' 
of governessing. She had expected to find a lesson 
waiting for her on the counter, perhaps several. 

“ What a mercy ! ” exclaimed Mabel joyously ; “ the 
very thing I should have chosen ! To paint away 
quietl}' instead of running after those odious lessons. 

^ AVas it not kind of the old gentleman ? I forget what 
j Claudes there are at the Louvre ; suppose we turn in 
and see. Miss Jones?” 

“Bless }^our trusting 3'oung spirit!” said Miss 
Jones inwardly; “the sky is all blue again. My 
darling,” she said, aloud, “ I think we had better not 


212 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


give np the search yet. What is that address Mr. 
Griiialdi gave you? Girel — it’s on the Boulevard, 
close hy ; there are quantities of pictures in the win- 
dows. We can inquire there at once.” 

“ Inquire about what?” 

“ About the lessons.” 

“ Where’s the good of it? He said I should never 
find an3\ Besides, I’d a thousand times rather have 
the other. Do please let us go and take a peep at the 
Claudes!” 

How could Miss Jones resist? The}’ crossed over 
and entered the Louvre. Artists of all ages and ranks 
were scattered through the galleries, — old men, work- 
ing away,, with skilful and experienced hand, uncon- 
scious or unmindful of the stragglers who stopped at 
their shoulder now and then to admire or criticise ; 
young men, pl.ying the brush with vigor and fire, striving 
to copy the glories before which white-haired veterans 
bowed in liumble reverence, — “ fools rushing in where 
angels fear to tread.” 

There were almost as many women as men, — a few 
of them amateurs ; one or two 3’oung ladies with a 
motlier or governess mounting guard. 

Mabel cast her e^’e along the gallerv ; but there 
was no time to indulge in picture viewing ; they 
went straight on to the Claudes. She was not long 
deciding. 

“ A Sea-port at Sunset,” — a picture full of life and 
color. It was a bold thing to attempt, but she felt it 
was in her to be an. artist ; more than one had told her 
so, and she would set heart and soul to w’ork, that the 
promise might be fulfilled. 

The}’ stood gazing at the picture, with its rich 
warmth of coloring, the sunset kissing the limpid water 
and the vessels resting in the harbor. 

Miss Jones knew nothing of art, but she felt the 
beauty of the picture, looking at it with Mabel, and 
listening to her expressions of admiration. 

^ “ This is what day? The days are all upside down 
since I have been in Paris.” . 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


213 


“ This is Saturday,” replied Miss Jones. 

“ Then I can’t begin till Monday. Meanwhile I 
have to get a canvas and an easel, and — I wonder do 
the, artists bring their own chairs ? ” 

“We can get all that information from one of the 
gardiens^"'’ suggested Miss Jones ; “I ’ll inquire of this 
one coming down.” 

Yes. The ladies must provide their own easels, but 
there were plent}' of chairs at their disposal. Had tliey 
presented their ticket of permission? If not, he could 
conduct them to the monsieur who received it. 

Mabel looked at Miss Jones for explanation. 

“ What ticket did Monsieur mean, — their passport?” 

“ Oh, no, that did not authorize them to copj^ in the 
gallery ; ” and he explained the impossibility of pro- 
ceeding without proper credentials. 

It was a check to Mabel’s impatience. 

The gardien assured her it was I’affaire de deux mots 
h M. le Directeur ; he gave the address, and promised 
her there would be no difficult}’ about the matter. She 
could not come on Monday, the gallery was closed ; 
on Tuesday the artists were not allowed to work ; 
Mademoiselle could not begin before Wednesday, so the 
delay about the ticket was reall}^ no dela}’ at all. 

The two ladies thanked him, and made their exit 
from the Louvre. 

Miss Jones proposed their looking in at Girel’s as 
they had the time, and were not far from it. They 
found there everything they wanted, easel and canvas. 

Monsieui* Girel promised to do anything in his power 
for a protege of his friend Grinaldi. If Mademoiselle 
wished to exhibit her picture when it was ready, he 
would be happy to give it the best place in his window. 
There was to be no question of terms ; he was only too 
happ3’ to oblige Mr. Grinaldi. 

Mabel grew more sanguine at every step. She saw 
in imagination her Claude figuring among the collec- 
tion of- pictures in the spacious window, — some gems, 
some horrors. 

“ I wonder how mucli I ought to ask for it, Miss 


2U 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Jones,” she said musingly, as they sauntered down 
the slopp3'' boulevards. 

“We’ll see when it is finished, dear,” was the 
cautious reply. 

Still, in spite of her experience. Miss Jones was 
letting herself be inoculated with hopefulness. The 
only two persons the}" had applied to seemed favorabl}' 
disposed ; the}" would help if they could, and ap- 
parently they had the means as well as the wish. 
Why should not this lovely child succeed where she 
had failed ? She was young and beautiful and gifted ; 
wliy might she not swim where Miss Jones had sunk? 
Miss Jones with her jaded face, her wrinkles, her gray 
hair. 

“You will come home and dine with me. Miss 
Jones? said Mabel, after they had discussed the 
probable proceeds of the picture. 

“ I fear I cannot, my dear,” said Miss Jones. 

“Oh, but you must! You want to go home and 
poke over some horrid old lesson. I know you do.” 

Mabel was not far out in her surmise. Miss Jones 
paid part of her small rent by a nightly English lesson 
to her landlady. The rent of the room was thirty 
francs a month, and the lesson made it twenty ; she 
gave it in the evening to insure its not being interfered 
with ; but yielding to Mabel’s entreaty, she resolved 
to give a double lesson next day to make up for this 
evening’s omission. 

“Where shall we find a cab?” exclaimed Mabel in 
dismay, as they came up to the deserted stand. 

There seemed little chance of finding one at that 
hour ; it was near six, and a day when no creature but 
a duck would have walked if he could help it. 

“We had better go to the Madeleine, and wait for 
the ’bus,” proposed Miss Jones. > 

“The ’bus! Do you mean the omnibus? I’d 
rather swim home,” protested Mabel, vehemently. “ I 
told you I was in one this morning. Miss Jones.” 

“ Well, my dear, why should that prevent you going 
in one this evening?” asked Miss Jones blandly. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


215 


“ Because I thought I should have died ! The peo- 
ple were so rude. Thej" tittered and would not make 
room for me. And then there was a man with a fish- 
basket. Oh ! ” and Miss Stanhope held her nose in 
disgust. 

“ You must not be so dainty, Mabel, if you want to 
be economical,” said the governess, amused “ and as 
to the people being rude, I think you must have fan- 
cied it, or else — ” 

“Or else what? ” 

“Have 3^ou no bonnet with j"ou, my dear? That 
hat is very becoming, but it’s perhaps rather remark- 
able, especialh" as j^ou are alone.” 

“ I have a bonnet,” replied Mabel, “ but I wore the 
hat because I fancied it was less remarkable. Now 
that 3"ou mention it, I don’t see other people with hats 
like mine,” and she looked round at the passers-b3^ 

“Then, dear, this cloak is rather fine for an omni- 
bus,” said Miss Jones, pointing to the shoulder-knots 
and rich braiding. 

“ It’s the oiilj" thing I have that is warm enough, 
except a shawl, and a shawl is so awkward when one 
has to gather up one’s skirts. I don’t see, though, 
what there is in it to laugh at?” And she looked 
down at the mantle, and then at Miss Jones. 

“M3" dear, when 3"ou want to go in an omnibus, 
make 3’ourself as plain as possible.” 

Mabel probably took the word in two senses, as Miss 
Jones meant it. “I wish 1 could ! ” she answered se- 
riousl3" ; “ I wish I were as ugl3" as that old woman ! ” 
The compliment was directed to an old woman fiying 
chestnuts in a corner ; and certainly, if Mabel’s pra3"er 
had been granted, all fear of her attracting troublesome 
admiration would have been at an end. 


216 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


ABEL received her ticket of admission, and now 



IVL sat at her easel, working away diligently. The 
work was a great blessing ; it helped to keep her 
thoughts from her troubles. She had not grown to feel 
less the separation from her parents, and she felt their 
silence, their utter forgetfulness, more and more. It 
was incomprehensible to her that Lady Stanhope should 
have cast her off so completely ; that neither of her 
parents cared to inquire whether she was starving or 
not. The truth w'as, Sir John had written to her from 
London, informing her of his depai'ture from England, 
and enclosing a check ; he forbade her to hold any com- 
munication with him, unless she were ill or in need of 
something ; and in that case she might send a letter to 
him through his banker, • — he could not give her any 
other address at the moment. This letter was directed 
to Belle-Vue, and being refused there, it lay several 
months at the dead-letter office before it was 'returned 
to Sir John’s bankers. 

And so Mabel concluded she was cast awa}’, and 
inexorably banished from the lives of both her parents. 
Her heart ached cruelly under the trial ; but she did 
not rebel, or even complain. She had made her sacri- 
fice, and she did not regret it. The single pearl was 
worth the great price she had paid for it. Her faith 
was dearer to her every day ; her soul did not fail her, 
nor did the trembling knee fall down under its burden. 
It was a heav}’ one, but the girl was brave and full 
of hope. She put her hand to the plough,' and went 
steadily on from day to day, trusting to God, and trying 
to cast her care for the morrow upon Him. 

By wa}- of simplifying her appearance, and ‘‘ get- 
ting herself up for the ’bus,” as Mabel styled it, she 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


217 


substituted for the beaver hat a dark-green velvet bon- 
net; but when Miss Jones saw it on Sunday — the 
two friends had met by appointment after church — she 
doubted whether the change was for the better or the 
w'orse ; the soft green of the velvet was distractingly 
becoming, and set off the sunn3*-tiuted hair even more 
than the black beaver. 

“I’m not going in an omnibus to-day,” said Mabel, 
putting her arm through Miss Jones’s ; “ but I thought 
a hat would look rather fast in church, so I put on this. 
Will it do for the ’bus? ” 

“ I suppose it must,” Miss Jones answered re- 
signedly ; ‘ ‘ only it ’s a pity to spoil it in everyday" use ; 
I would buy a plain one to save it.” 

“I can’t afford that; a plain one would cost me 
two guineas, I suppose ; this one cost three. Madame 
Belierose brought it expressly for me from Paris. I 
little thought I should wear it here for the first time ! ” 

No adventure broke the monotony of Mabel’s work 
at the Museum for the first fortnight. The artists in 
her immediate neighborhood recognized her b}^ a friendly 
“ bon jour” in the morning, and “ bon soir” when the 
bell rang them out of the galler}- at four o’clock. 

The copy progressed steadil}^ though not without 
many a pang of discouragement and sense of inca- 
pabilitv in Mabel’s heart. 

Miss Jones called for her one afternoon as she sat 
gloomily before her easel, looking alternatel3" from its 
unfinished canvas to' the original, the pallet hanging 
from her thumb, — a picture of despondenc3^ Miss 
Jones laid both hands on her shoulder. Mabel started. 

“I’m going to scrape it all out! ” she exclaimed, 
falling back in her chair and looking up at Miss Jones ; 
“ it ’s a botch, — it ’s horrible ! ” 

“I think it admirable,” declared Miss Jones, after a 
i moment’s scrutiny, bringing all her powers of observation 
on the copy ; “ indeed, Mabel, I do. To be sure, I am 
no great judge ; still, I can tell a good thing from a bad. 
Now, that sea-piece to our right seems to be a very washy 
concern ; the sea is mudd3', and — I can’t describe it. 


218 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


but the picture seems to me to want air. In yours, one 
feels as if the}" could breathe the air, — it’s so trans- 
jxirent, so thin.” 

Mabel’s eye sparkled. 

“That is just what I fancy it is not!” she said. 
Then, turning her eye towards the copy Miss Jones 
alluded to, she saw how thoroughly just was her criti- 
cism. If Miss Jones was right in one case, w"hy might 
she not be in the other? Mabel rose and viewed her 
work from the other side of the gallery, first in one 
light then in another. 

“You have been looking at it so long,” said Miss 
Jones, “that I do believe you are dazed, and can’t tell 
one light or one effect from another.” 

“Perhaps yon are right,” replied Mabel in a less 
dissatisfied tone ; and putting away her pallet and 
brushes’, she prepared to go, although it still wanted 
half an hour of tlie closing-time. 

Resisting all Mabel’s entreaties to go home and dine 
with her, Miss Jones, after walking a short way down 
the Rue de Rivoli, hailed her friend the conducteur., 
and was soon rolling tow^ards Montmartre. 

Mabel sped on her way alone, her dark plaid shawl 
drawn tightly across her chest with one hand, while 
in the other she held a roll of music. Miss Jones 
had particularly impressed on her the advisability of 
always carrying a roll of music whenever she went 
out. 

“ It will give you a professional air,” the governess 
said, “and account for your walking alone.” 

Whether it was owing to the professional badge or 
not, Mabel could not say; but it certainly seemed to 
her that since she adopted it people molested her less 
frequently. Beyond a passing salutation to her beauty, 
she was seldom annoyed, and grew daily less frightened 
at walking alone. 

It was a bright, frosty day, and she stepped on 
briskly, enjoying the exercise after the day’s sitting. 
Suddenly, crossing the street, she came right against 
an individual running to escape a carriage that was 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


219 


bearing down on him. Who should it be but her old 
acquaintance, Rol^’-poly ! 

“ Comment! ” screamed the little man, in an ecstasy 
of delight. “ But I knew we should meet again ; some- 
thing here told me ! ” — with a thump at his heart that 
would have satisfied any insurance company there w^as 
nothing to fear in that region. ‘‘ Have you forgotten 
the fatigue of the voyage ? But I need not ask ; ” and 
off came the hat again, bobbing till it neaily touched 
the ground. 

Mabel was glad to see him. Among those thousands 
of fellow-beings who passed and repassed her on every 
side, — Miss Jones excepted, this was the only face, 
since she was in Paris, that had met her with a smile of 
recognition. 

“ You are still at Meurice’s? A charming situation ; 
all your compatriotes like this quarter ; quite right, 
quite right ; English purses can afford it. I wish mine 
could 1 ” and Monsieur Tourniquet chuckled at the 
conceit. 

“ I only stayed there for two days,” observed Mabel, 
and the blood mounted to her face. Was it right to let 
this well-disposed little man continue to regard her as a 
2Derson of fortune? If he knew' her real position, he 
might be of use to her; he could j^robably find her 
some tuitions. 

“ It was very foolish of me to have gone to Meurice’s 
at all,” she continued, tr3ing to speak carelessly ; “ but 
it was the onl}' place I knew of. By way of atonement, 
I am now staying in a lodging at the Batignolles. If 
3’ou know an\^ one requiring lessons in painting or 
English, you will do me a great service In" recommend- 
ing me.” 

She spoke with a desperate effort to appear unem- 
barrassed, and Monsieur Tourniquet was sufficient!}" 
observant to detect it. There was some mystery in the 
way. This was not a j^rofessional teacher. Mabel’s 
appearance was too thoroughly at variance with the 
position ; her dress (a Frenchman could appreciate 
that) was too handsome ; the diamond-studded watch, 


220 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


the silver-mounted travelling-bag, — all this he had no- 
ticed on the steamer ; everything about her, from the 
carved handle of her make-believe umbrella to the 
elegantly finished boot, denoted affluence and refine- 
ment. What could bring tliis lovely, high-born girl — 
for high-born he felt sure she was — a-governessing in 
Paris? Perhaps some sentimental mesaventure 'f But 
there was that on Mabel Stanhope’s brow that for- 
bade the veiT shadow of mistrust in her maidenly pride 
and purit}^ Whatever her antecedents might be, she 
interested Monsieur Tourniquet. He was kind-hearted, 
— most Frenchmen are, — and he would serve her if he 
could. 

“ Let me see,” he mused, putting his finger on 
his nose; “Mademoiselle entreprend la tete, — les 
portraits ? ” 

“ No, — landscapes only ; oils and water-colors.” 

“Oh, that is unfortunate!” Monsieur Tourniquet 
would then and there have engaged her to paint his 
portrait, had her answer been different. “We must 
see about the landscape lessons,” he said cheeringly ; 
“ meanwhile, I think I may be able to get 3*011 an 
English one tout de suite. When can 1 have the honor 
of seeing Mademoiselle? ” 

“ Whenever it is convenient to 3*011,” replied Mabel. 
“If 3*our time is much occupied, it might suit 3’ou 
better for me to call on 3*011 ; it is a long walk to the 
Batignolles.” 

“Not too long to procure me the honor of seeing 
3*ou, Mademoiselle,” — and off came the hat again ; 
“ but since you give me the choice, I should be the 
most honored of men if 3’ou would call at m3* house. I 
am the busiest man in Paris, — never a moment to my- 
self. It ’s quite b3" miracle that I got out for an hour 
this afternoon. Permettez,” — and Monsieur Tourniquet, 
plunging into the depths of half a dozen pockets, brought 
forth a memorandum-book as short and fat as himself. 
“ This is my address,” he said, extricating a card from 
the miscellaneous package of letters and bills stuffed 
under the India-rubber strap. “Any hour from ten 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


221 


A. M to ten p. M., — an}" clay, including Sunday, I am 
at home, and aux ordres de Mademoiselle.-’ 

Mabel took the card, and promised to call soon. 

Roh"-poly trotted off, bobbing vigorously, and pro- 
testing at the top of his voice that he was the serviteur 
devoue de Mademoiselle, and the proudest of men if he 
could oblige her. 

“ How very good-natured he is,” soliloquized Mabel, 
as the Frenchman disappeared ; “ so kind on the jour- 
ney, so ready to assist me now. Let me see where he 
lives, — Monsieur Tourniquet., Galerie Montpellier., 
Palais Royal. I ’ll ask Miss Jones to come with 
me ; ” and she placed the card carefully in her pocket- 
book. 

It was dismal enough, the little white-curtained salon^ 
when Mabel, after her long day’s work, came home to 
her lonel}" little dinner. She had been there just a 
mouth now ; and simple as her fare had been, the daily 
draught on her slender purse had told heavily. With 
3’outh’s reckless trust in the future, she saw the little 
store growing daily “ small and beautifull}* less” with- 
out much fear. The Claude was nearly completed, and 
Mabel was as certain of selling it as if she had held the 
price in her hand. 

The concierge was very civil and attentive, — which 
made the tenant of the hijou far less uncomfortable 
than she might have been. The fire was lighted earl}^ 
and regularl}" in the salon., the breakfast was brought 
in at eight o’clock to the minute, and the dinner was 
ready punctually at five when the young artist returned 
home. 

Mabel dined early, because it made the evening 
shorter. At nine she was in bed, — sometimes be- 
fore that hour. 

The morning after her meeting wdth Monsieur Tour- 
niquet, the landlad}' did not make her appearance as 
usual to light the fire, and no breakfast came at eight. 

Mabel, in some alarm, concluded that Madame Gros- 
jean must be ill. She threw on her shawl, and went 
down to the lodge. Monsieur Grosjean was smoking 


222 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


his pipe and lolling back in \i\q fauteuil^ with a hand in 
each pocket. He stood up, and jerked the tassel of his 
skull-cap as Mabel put her head in at the window. 

“Has an3^thing happened? Is Madame Grosjean 
ill?” she inquired. 

“ Oui, Madame mon epouse est souffrante,” replied 
Monsieur Grosjean, putting on as doleful an expression 
as his greas}', good-humored face could wear. 

“It’s nothing serious, I hope,” said Mabel con- 
cernedly. 

“ Dieu garde. Mademoiselle; but j’Oii see my wife 
is a sensitive plant, comme qui dirait., and the winter 
tries her so cruell}". I live in fear and trembling.” 

“ For her, or of her? ” thought his tenant. Madame 
Grosjean rode the gra}’ mare, and it was no wonder the 
laz}’ husband stood in some awe of his energetic epouse. 

“It’s here,” said Monsieur Grosjean, sticking his 
thumb-nail backwards into his throat. 

Mabel was less affected by the information than she 
ought to have been ; but this malady of Madame Gros- 
jean’s interfered so seriously with her domestic arrange- 
ments, that it is not to be wondered at if she thought 
first of that. 

“ I hope Madame Grosjean will soon be well again,” 
she said. “Is there any one, meanwhile, w^ho could 
take her place in m3’ little menageP 

“ Ala foi., no. Mademoiselle ; and I am in despair to 
think 3’ou will be inconvenienced.” 

“ Is there no person in the neighborhood who would 
come and light ra3’ fire in the morning?” asked Mabel, 
who was much nearer to despair than her landlord. 

Monsieur Grosjean clutched his herette^ looked down 
at his sabots, and meditated. 

“There is la were Cuiy ; she might give a hand.” 
He let go his skull-cap, and looked up with the air of a 
man who had got on the right side of a difficulty : “ I 
will speak to Madame mon epouse ! ” This was the 
inevitable solution of all Monsieur Grosjean’s puzzles. 

Mabel was obliged to content herself with the promise. 
She tripped back to her room. The boite au lait, with 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


223 


its quantum of milk for the morning, was hanging on 
the knob of her door ; the long French loaf was standing 
against the wall. She took both in, and made her break- 
fast off the cold collation. The idea of lighting the fire 
herself no more occurred to her than it would have oc- 
curred to her to slaughter a sheep, if there had been no 
other way of getting a mutton-chop for her dinner. 

Before setting out for the Louvre she wrote a line to 
Miss Jones, asking her to call for her at the Museum 
the first afternoon she had a spare moment. 

Monsieur Grosjean kept his word about speaking to 
his epouse on the matter of Mabel’s menage. 

Madame Grosjean was in bed, with a yellow hand- 
kerchief wound turban-wise round her head. She was 
drinking tisane and undergoing semi-strangulation with 
a dirty stocking. 

La petite Anglaise has been down to ask if we 
could get anj'body to do for her while you are ailing,” 
’began the husband, sitting down by his lady’s bed-side, 
and puffing away at his pipe. I said I’d see about 
the mere Cury.” 

“You said 3^011 ’d see about the mere Cury, did 
3’ou?” croaked Madame Grosjean, with unmistakable 
emphasis. 

“I said I’d speak to 3’ou first,” replied Monsieur 
Grosjean, nodding at his wife. 

“ You had no business to speak about the mere Cur3’’ 
at all,” said the epouse in a' resentful tone. “If it 
came to her ears that the petite wanted her, she ’d be in 
hm'e while 3’ou ’d light 3’our pipe.” 

“ It would only be while 3^011 were a-bed,” remarked 
Monsieur Grosjean consolingl3\ 

“ Lourrique ! ” snapped Madame Grosjean, scowling 
at him from under her yellow turban. “Monsieur 
-Grosjean, I married a hourrique the day I married 
you ! ” 

“ Permettez!'' broke in the hourrique, dropping his 
pipe. 

“ Permettez vous-meme, beta! If the mh^e Cury 
gets up there, it ’s might3’ likely the petite will let her 


224 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


down again w^hen she finds even'thing w^as half the price 
she pa3’S'me, — not to speak of the fire that ’s burned. 
If 3’ou had an e3’e in your head, Monsieur Grosjean, 
3'ou ’d see the saving it ’s been to me in the matter of 
fire, ihQ petite's menage. I’ve not spent fifty centimes 
in charcoal since I ’ve been doing for her ! ” 

“ Pardie! how could I know that?” demanded Mon- 
sieur Grosjean. 

“ If 3’ou had an e3’e in 3’our head, I sa3’, 3^011 might 
have known it. You ’ve not seen a marmite on that 
hearth this four months past. Where did the pot-au- 
feu boil itself, I wonder ? ” 

‘ ‘ You are a menagere., Madame Grosjean ! ” And 
the husband threw up his hands in admiration. 

“Didn’t 3'ou know I cooked eveiy bit w^e eat np 
there, cte la petite f" continued Madame Grosjean, 
waxing warm with her subject. “ La mere Cury for- 
sooth ! — an old higotte that would bargain for her 
master harder than — ” A spasmodic twitch in the 
throat cut short the sentence. “ line goutte de tilleul ! ” 
she gasped. 

Monsieur Grosjean seized the cup and held it to her 
lips. 

“Do 3’ou want to kill me. Monsieur Grosjean?” 
pursued the lad3' when she had recovered her breath 
and swallowed a few drops of the tisane. “Do 3'ou 
w’ant to get rid of me ? If 3'ou do, 3'ou ’d better say- 
so at once.” 

“ Peste et diable ! ” cried Monsieur Grosjean, pulling 
his herette awiy. “You needn’t cry fire because a 
man let an old woman’s name slip through his pipe ! 
The petite must wait till 3’ou ’re up, — that ’s all.” 

Monsieur Grosjean walked sulkily out of his wife’s 
private den, and ensconced himself in his arm-chair, 
with his feet on the w^arm ashes of the hearth, where 
a huge log was smouldering comfortabl3\ 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


225 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

I T was near five, and quite dark, when Miss Jones 
and Mabel entered the Palais Ro3'al. 

“ What an odd place for a private person to live ! ” 
. remarked Miss Jones as thej’ turned into the Galerie 
Montpellier, where the shop- windows were already- in 
a blaze of gas-light. 

“ Number ten : this can’t be it. We had better in- 
quire here at this hairdresser’s,” suggested Mabel. 

Miss Jones w'ent in and inquired if Monsieur Tourni- 
quet lived there. 

“ La porte a gauche, au premier,” informed the mis- 
tress of the counter. 

The two friends groped their wa}" up the narrow 
stairs. A sound of men’s loud laughter came down 
upon them. Miss Jones stood and listened. 

“ M}" dear,” she whispered, “suppose you wait in 
the shop downstairs till 1 see what sort of a place it is 
here. I’d rather go in alone first.” 

“ No doubt 3’ou would,” laughed Mabel ; “ and if the 
people are impudent, 3^011 ’d have all the impudence to 
3’ourself. But 3’ou need have no fear. Rol3*-poly is 
the kindest little man you ever spoke to ; I am sure he 
would be hurt if I did not go with 3'ou. We had much 
better go together.” 

While she was speaking the door ati premier opened, 
and three gentlemen came running down the stairs, 
whistling and laughing. Miss Jones was a few steps 
higher up than Mabel, and her face was visible by the 
light of an oil lamp that flickered on the wall. Mabel 
was completel3' in the dark. 

“ What a good thing they are gone,” she said as 
the closing door announced the nois3" exit of the 
gentlemen. 


15 


226 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


Yes. I hope there is no one else there.’^ 

Miss Jones rang. The door was opened by a boy in 
livery. 

Opposite this entrance-door was another, that stood 
wide open, disclosing a long billiard-table, with a bril- 
liant gas-light falling on the green cloth. The balls 
were rolling about, but the player was not visible from 
where Miss Jones and Mabel stood. 

“ It can’t be here,” whispered Mabel, hanging back 
towards the stairs. 

Madame vent entrer?” said the servant, throwing 
the door wide open. 

“ Monsieur Tourniquet?” inquired Miss Jones. 

The shadow of a man in shirt-sleeves fell right across 
the open door-wa}'. He held the billiard-cue suspended. 

‘ ‘ Yes, Madame, Monsieur Tourniquet is here. Whom 
shall I announce?” asked the servant. 

“ Say that two English ladies wish to see him,” an- 
swered Mabel. 

“ Ah, c’est ma petite voyageuse ! ” cried a voice that 
Mabel recognized. And the figure in shirt-sleeves 
rushed out, cue in hand, and beheld — Miss Jones ! 

She had pushed Mabel behind her, and stood forward 
so as to hide her completely from Monsieur Tourniquet. 

It was a stud}^ for a painter, — Eolj'-poly holding his 
cue triumphant!}' aloft, and Miss Jones’s gaunt figure 
petrified with dismay. 

Roly-poly lowered his cue and stared at her. 

“ It is I, Monsieur Tourniquet,” said a silvery voice. 
And Mabel stepped in front of her dragon. 

“ A la bonne heure ! ” ejaculated Monsieur Tourni- 
quet; “ entrez, Mesdames, entrez.” And he threw 
open a door leading out of the billiard-room. 

It might have been the salle-a-manger of a cq/e^ — 
in fact, it was a nondescript sort of room. There was a 
table in the middle, strewed with newspapers and books 
and almanacs, railway-guides, etc. ; there were a num- 
ber of small tables scattered about, with cups and glasses 
on them. 

Monsieur Tourniquet did the honors with great cor- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


2.^1 

diality, and seemed totally unconcerned at being found 
in deshabille. He attempted no apology, but bustled 
about placing chairs for his visitors. 

“Pray don’t take the trouble, Monsieur,” said Ma- 
bel; “I see 3a)u are busy, so I won’t detain you a 
moment. You were kind enough to sa\^ there was a 
lesson in English that you could secure for me.” 

“Yes; but pray sit down. I am entirely at your 
orders, Madame and Mademoiselle,” he bowed to Miss 
Jones, and placed a chair beside her. But Miss Jones 
looked inflexible, and remained standing as stiff as a 
gendarme close to her charge. 

“It was a lesson precisement for myself. Would 
Mademoiselle accept her humble servant as a pupil?” 
Monsieur Tourniquet rubbed his hands and chuckled. 

“ Moshu ! ” cried Miss Jones, aghast. 

“I will put myself completely at the orders of my 
charming terms and time; the evening, 

between seven and eight, would be the most convenient 
to me, but I place myself in the hands of Mademoi- 
selle.” 

Mabel was stronglv tempted to laugh outright ; there 
was something so comical in the notion of her playing 
professor to Roly-poly ; but she looked at Miss Jones 
and the temptation vanished. 

“Come away, m3' child,” said Miss Jones, and she 
laid her hand firmly on the 3’onng girl’s shoulder. 

“ I don’t think I could manage it, Monsieur Tour- 
niquet,” observed Mabel, “I am veiy much obliged to 
you, but I fear the distance — ” 

“ Pooh pooh,” replied the gentleman ; “ that is noth- 
ing. You can take the omnibus coming and going ; the 
lesson would be worth it,” he argued in a confidential 
tone. “ I say it is for myself, but we should be three, 
perhaps four, at say three francs each, eh?” Mon- 
sieur Tourniquet thrust his hands into his pockets, and 
leaned against the wall. 

“ Who would the others be?” inquired Mabel. 

Sapristi! there would be three joKs gargons as 
3'ou would find in Paris. They have just been in here, 


228 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


rolling the balls 3’onder, and I was proposing to them 
our getting up an English class here of an evening ; 
one of them asked if Mademoiselle — ” 

“ Moshu ! ” burst out Miss Jones again, this time 
so vehemently that “ Moshu” could not ignore the in- 
terruption. 

“Madame!” he rejoined, and turning, awaited her 
pleasure. 

“ Vous etes nn homme 1 ” she stopped, every nerve 
trembling with indignation. 

“Dame! oui, et un honnete homme,” asserted Mon- 
sieur Tourniquet testih’. 

“I am sure you mean it all in kindness, Monsieur,” 
interposed Mabel, ^M)ut a moment^S reflection will tell 
you I could not undertake the task.” 

She spoke very gently. She was pained and mortified, 
but she was too angelically single-minded to see in the 
Frenchman’s proposal anything worse than an incon- 
venance^ a stupid mistake, a good-natured but ignorant 
proof of good-will. So far she was right. Monsieur 
Tourniquet had not two ideas be^’ond making money ; 
he made his b}^ a billiard-table ; he would help this 
pretty girl to make hers by teaching himself and his 
customers. He saw, however, that, unconsciouslj', he 
had distressed her. 

“ I beg your pardon. Mademoiselle,” he said; “ if I 
have done a hetise^ I did not intend it. I meant to 
serve 3^011. If it does not suit, there is no harm done.” 

“ You meant everything that was kind, and I thank 
3’ou, Monsieur,” said Mabel ; “ but I could not entertain 
the proposal.” 

Miss Jones said “Bone jour, IMoshn,” opened the 
door, and hurried out, holding Mabel’s hand tight, till 
the}" stood secure in the galleiy below. 

Mabel was much less agitated than Miss Jones. In 
fact, be3"ond the feeling that she had appeared ungrate- 
ful and ungracious to a well-meaning, kind-hearted 
clown, she saw no cause for agitation at all. 

“ Let this be a lesson to 3'ou, my dear, never to make 
an acquaintance without an introduction,” said Miss 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


229 


Jones, as the}" passed hurriedly out of the Palais 
Roj'al. 

What an absurd idea ! ” exclaimed Mabel, bursting 
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “ Just fancy me 
holding forth to a class of jolts gargons at a biliiard- 
table.” 

Miss Jones saw nothing to laugh at. She felt in- 
clined to get angiy with Mabel ; it was so unlike her to 
be frivolous or undignified. 

“I’m glad 3’ou see it in that light,” said the govern- 
ess coldly. “I should liaA^e expected such an outrage 
on 3*our dignity would have had a different effect.” 

“ Poor Roh'-pol}’ ! he no more meant to offend me or 
lu}’ dignity than you do,” protested Mabel; “he’s the 
most good-natured goose in creation.” 

It was quite evident her view of the adventure could 
go no farther, and Miss Jones did not consider it neces- 
saiy to enlarge the view. After all, what better safe- 
guard could Mabel have than this total ignorance of 
danger, that would lead her unmoved through a furnace 
of temptation, without one throb of fear unnerving her 
courage ? Let innocence be her shield : it might prove 
a safer one than knowledge. 

They walked on together. Mabel did not ask Miss 
Jones to return with her. She had no dinner and no 
fire. Madame Grosjean’s illness had interfered sadlj^ 
with her menage.^ which for the last two daj’s had been 
completely neglected. She dreaded returning home this 
evening. It was intensel}’ cold, and the empty fireplace 
in the carpetless room was cheerless to look forward 
to. She did not tell Miss Jones of her new domestic 
troubles ; it would have distressed the good soul, and 
mended nothing. 

On reaching home Mabel stepped into the lodge to 
inquire for Madame Grosjean. 

Monsieur Grosjean was in his usual attitude of volup- 
tuous comfort, hung back in his fauteuil. “ Made- 
moiselle is too good,” he replied, removing his pipe ; 
“ m}^ wife is a little better. I hope soon to see her up 
and about.” 


230 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ I hope so, too, for her sake, and a little for my 
own,” added Mabel frankl3\ “ I miss her terribly. 
It is so cold in m^' little place without a fire.” 

“ Pauvre demoiselle ! ” said Monsieur Grosjean com- 
passionately. “ I would go and light it for 3’ou, but I 
dare not leave the lodge without an3' one to answer 
inquiries. Tenez^ you could manage it yourself, quite 
easil3^ Put plenty of fagots and paper under the wood, 
and set a match to it. Cela va tout seul ! ” 

“ Thank you, I will tiT,” answered Mabel. 

She did not feel equal to making the experiment that 
evening ; but next morning she set about it, and perse- 
vered till she succeeded. When the fire was bright 
enough, she filled a bouillotte with water, and set it 
down to boil, as a preliminaiy to a cup of tea. Then 
finding that her small stock of sugar was exhausted, she 
put on her bonnet and went down to fetch some. Mon- 
sieur Grosjean told her where the grocer lived, and 
Mabel, after informing him triumphandy that she had 
made un feu siiperbe^ set off to buy the sugar. 

The sedentary life she had been leading of late, sit- 
ting from nine o’clock to four, almost without moving 
from her chair, was beginning to tell on her strength. 
Added to this, for nearh" three days she had lived prin- 
cipally on cold milk and bread. Her head w’as aching ; 
she had lain in bed half an hour later than usual, and 
nothing but the strong feeling that work w^as becoming 
every da3' more and more of vital importance, could 
have given her courage to rise at all. The work, in 
itself, she enjo3’ed : it occupied and interested her ; it 
kept her from dwelling exclusively on the terrible storm 
that had shaken her young life, changing the whole 
current of her existence. True to her standard, Mabel 
fought with unrelenting courage the battle of conscience ; 
but her heart was aching and she had not grown callous 
to the consequences of her conversion. Her soul, calm 
in the strength of its self sacrifice, was at peace, — 
“ that peace which the world can neither give nor take 
awa3^ ; ” but her heart was tortured. Waking or sleep- 
ing, her mother’s face was before her ; the stern features 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


231 


of her father bent upon her as she had seen them last, 
— cold, outraged, unforgiving. And was it never to 
change? Was her life to drag on forever in this lonely 
struggle for a mouthful of bread? 

When her thoughts ran riot somewhat after this fash- 
ion, Mabel would plunge her soul in pra3’cr, or seek in 
absorbing work some diversion from the harrowing 
subject. 

This morning, as she passed out, Monsieur Grosjean 
was holding his petit lever with the cooks of his loca- 
taires. Some of them had already' come back from 
market ; others had just started to la}^ in the provisions 
for the da3^ 

Ma foi, dame Virginie,” said Cerberus to the portl}' 
copk from au premier sur la rue^ that ’s a handsome 
bird 3’ou Ve got there. Might a neighbor make bold to 
ask how much 3^011 paid for it ? ” 

“ A neighbor like 3^00, — yes, and welcome,” replied 
Virginie ; and drawing her bird out of the basket where 
it was partl3^ concealed under a foliage of lettuce, she 
held it up by the legs, giving it a somersault on to its 
back, and punching its fat breast with her knuckles. 
“ C’est une fameuse bete ! ” she said appealing to the 
assembled cooks. 

“ What did it cost 3"ou?” inquired she, of au deux- 

%^7yh&» 

“ What do 3^011 think? ” 

“ Let me feel it, Madame Virginie,” requested Nan- 
ette, the meek bonne of the first floor in the pavilion. 

“ It cost me eight francs ; voila^'’ pointing to the item 
in her account-book, “ it ’s marked ten.” 

“ Pas possible ! ” exclaimed Nanette, nearly dropping 
the fowl in her astonishment. 

Premier and deuxieme nodded to each other, and 
smiled. 

“ The table ehez vous would n’t be strong enough to 
hold a hUe like that, would it ? ” demanded deuxieme 
sarcasticalh'. 

“ I don’t intend staying up there,” said Nanette, 
tossing her head in the direction of the pavilion.' “ I 


232 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


just took it en attendant. I was never in such a 
wretched place in life. You may fanc}^ Mesdames, 
what I have to put up with, when I tell you that when- 
ever we \\2iYQ poulet pot-au-feu (the}^ always go to- 
gether la haut) I have to dine off the pot-au-feu^ and 
save the poulet for Madame’s breakfast next day.” 

“ Quelle barraque de place ! ” exclaimed au premier., 
throwing up her hands in disgust. 

“ Dieu ! les vilains maitres !” cried deuxQme., with 
pious indignation. 

“Why is she sotte enough to do it?” observed au 
troisieme; “ whenever my people tell me to save any- 
thing, I turn it sour, or I let the cat get at it.” 

“ L’intelligence est un don de Dieu ! ” pronounced 
Monsieur Grosjean, with a significant glance at Nanette, 
the provmciale. 

“That’s a true saying. Monsieur Grosjean,” chimed 
m^deuxieme and troisieme. 

“Yes, 3’ou may sa}^ it, all of you,” and Monsieur 
Grosjean nodded separate!}" to the three artistes of the 
front house. “You’re not likely to be fooled by mas- 
ters who don’t know how to treat a good employe. Just 
let me have a look at that fowl, dame Virginie. I bought 
one by way of a treat for Madame Grosjean’s fete to- 
morrow ; poor soul, it’s the only thing that could tempt 
her to eat a bit. I won’t put myself out of conceit with 
my own bird, by putting it alongside of yours though.” 

“Faites voir. Monsieur Grosjean, faites voir,” urged 
Virginie encouragingly. 

Monsieur Grosjean went to the window, and stretch- 
ing out to a wire safe perched on the wall, dragged 
down the fowl for examination. He turned it first on 
one side, then on the other, bumping it all the while, 
and inviting ces dames to give their opinion. 

“ It ain’t a bad hUe either,” observed Virginie ; “ how 
much did it stand you. Monsieur Grosjean?” 

“ Five francs, fifty, after twenty minutes’ stand-up 
fight for it.” 

“It’s a bargain for that,” said au deuxiem,e. 

“ And you say it’s Madame Grosjean’s fke to-mor- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


233 


row ? ” inquired Virginie, looking reflectively from her 
own bird to the bargain. 

“Yes, voisine^ and I hope you’ll all come in and 
drink her speedy recovery, — quite en famille^ at ten 
o’clock. I hope Madame Grosjean will be able to sit up 
a bit ; at all events, she ’ll be happy to have her friends 
about her.” 

Monsieur Grosjean tugged at his berette. 

“Thank you, Monsieur Grosjean, we shall be most 
happ3%” answered the invitees in chorus. 

“I’ll tell 3’ou what. Monsieur Grosjean,” said Vir- 
ginie, with the air of one who is going to do a hand- 
some thing and knows it, “I ’ll just take up that bird of 
yours and leave mine here as a little for Madame 

Grosjean.” 

“Oh! Madame Virginie!” cried Cerberus, and his 
bleared e3*e twinkled, “ vous me touchez jusqu’ aux 
larmes ; but I will not abuse your generosity. I know 
3'ou enjoy a good poularde yourself as well as an3’bod3\” 

“ I won’t say nay to that,” replied Virginie jocosei3" ; 
“but I enjoy the pleasure of doing a civil thing 1)3^ a 
friend too, Monsieur Grosjean.” 

“ That 3’ou do, Madame Virginie,” spoke au deuxibme 
approvingl3^ ; “but we ’re not going to be behindhand 
with 3’ou in doing liouor to Madame Grosjean’s fUe. 
Are we, Mamselle S3dvie?” 

" “ No, that w^e are n’t ! ” responded Mamselle Sylvie. 

“Well, let’s see what we can offer to garnish the 
poidardeP 

Mamselle Aspasie of au deuxieme emptied the con- 
tents of her basket on the table. . • 

“ What would 3^011 say to a small dish of asparagus? 
— a real beauty of a bundle ! I paid fifteen francs for 
it at the market; I meant to put it down at eighteen, 
but I ’ll do the handsome by the folk upstairs, and let 
them have it at cost price for sharing it with Madame 
Grosjean.” 

“ Mes amis, it’s too much ! indeed it is,” whimpered ' 
Monsieur Grosjean, making a desperate effort to be 
overcome. 


234 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ I feel ashamed to offer an3'thing, after ces dames 
behaving so handsome,” said Mademoiselle Sylvie 
modestly; “but Madame Grosjean will take the will 
for tlie deed, I know her dHicatesse.'"’ 

“You may trust to it, Mamselle S3dvie,” observed 
Monsieur Grosjean; “above all presents Madame 
Grosjean values the kindness of her friends.” 

“Will 3’ou offer her this? — not that it’s worth 
much, but it’s refreshing, and it will remind her of 
me to-morrow.” Mamselle S\dvie drew forth from 
the basket a tine melon, and presented it to Monsieur 
Grosjean. 

There was a general cr}^ of surprise and admiration. 

“ That’s what I call a good joke ! ” said Madame Vir- 
ginie, rather piqued at being outdone in generosity. 
“ Mamselle Sylvie makes as many apologies as if she 
were going to bring out an egg. This time of year, that 
melon must have cost at least seven francs?” 

“I’m not going to say what it cost,” retorted S^dvie ; 
“ I don’t consider that delicate.” 

“ And what are you going to offer Madame Gros- 
jean?” inquired Mamselle Aspasie of Kanette, who had 
listened in silence to the foregoing conversation. 

Nanette was a 3’oung, honest countiy girl, whom four 
months’ residence in the dishonest atmosphere of the 
capital had not 3’et corrupted. 

She was puzzled to make out the secret of her sister- 
cooks’ generosity ; no doubt there was some understand- 
ing between themselves and their masters which enabled 
them to act so independently. With regard to the extra 
figures tacked on to their purchases, she was puzzled 
still more. 

“Monsieur Grosjean,” said Nanette, “ my wages don’t 
allow me to be as generous as ces dames ; but as 3’ou 
say Madame Grosjean looks more to the good-will than 
anything else, I will beg of you to offer her this little 
trifle for me, and I will ask Madame to give me a bottle 
of wine to drink Madame Grosjean’s health, or c^pot de 
confilure, — perhaps she would like that better.” 

Nanette took an old kid glove from some mysterious 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


235 


hiding-place in the front of her dress, squeezed a two- 
franc piece out of the thumb, and presented it to 
Monsieur Grosjean. That gentleman had sufficiently 
recovered himself to be able to rise and resume his 
station on the hearth. 

Mes amis,” he exclaimed, casting an appealing 
look on his auditors, “ mes amis, have I deserved this? 
vto be offered charity on my own hearth ! ” 

“ Fi done, vilaine provinciale ! ” screamed Virginie. 
“ How dare j ou insult Monsieur Grosjean ! Don’t 3’ou 
see we only presented him with some bagatelle of our' 
masters. Tlie idea of offering him money, — as if we 
were not friends and equals ! ” 

“ Petite sotte ! ” sneered S.ylvie, “ 3’ou ’ll ask Madame 
for 2ipot de confiture., will you?” and the three joined 
in a contemptuous laugh at Nanette. , 

La petite is from la province N" observed Aspasie. 
“Yes,” retorted Nanette, roused out of her shyness ; 

[ “.yes, I am from la province., where it is considered an 
I insult to offer stolen goods to an honest man !” 

5 “ Insolente fille ! ” threatened Virginie, shaking her 

! clenched fist at Nanette, “be off to 3’our garret, and 
: keep a civil tongue in your head, or we’ll know the rea- 
son svhyP 

1 The provinciale did not wait to be told twice ; she 
i betook herself out of the lodge, a wiser, if not a better 
' woman than she had entered it. 

Meanwhile Mabel, whose thoughts were intent on 
other things than her pound of sugar, had, in her ab- 
• straction, walked a long way past the grocer’s shop.. It 
was half-past nine when she got home. Fulh' two hours 
were lost to the Louvre for that da3\ 

< Passing by the lodge, she saw several letters on the 
■ table. One "was addressed in a strong, angular hand 
I that set Mabel’s heart beating apace. She stood at the 
' open door, and asked if there were a letter for her. 

“No, Mademoiselle,” replied Monsieur Grosjean, 
i running his eye over the envelopes. 

: Of course not ; yet a flush of disappointment crim- 

! soned her face. 


236 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ Ce sera pour un autre jour, mon enfant ! ” said the 
concierge kindl}'. 

“ Mon enfant ! ” how the words stabbed her through 
and through ! Was she ever to hear them from a 
parent’s lips again? 

“ Pauvre petite,” said one of the cooks, looking com- 
passionately after the 3’oung girl as she crossed the court- 
3’ard ; “ c’est triste de voir cela seule, si jeune, et si 
jolie ! ” 

The fire burned cheerily, making the polished fioor of 
the salon warm with its refiected blaze. Mabel was 
loath to leave it. The exertion of lighting it and pre- 
paring her breakfast had tired her more than seemed 
warranted by the fatigue of the effort. 

When she arrived at the Louvre that morning her 
hand trembled so that she found it almost impossible to 
guide her brush : she tried to stead}^ it by covering a 
sheet of paper with an arra}^ of pothooks and hangers 
that reminded her of her juvenile feats of caligraphj^ ; 
but this did not help her much, and the copy had made 
little additional progress when the bell rang at four 
o’clock. Her fellow-laborers were all sallying off to- 
gether, rolling their easels into their appointed places, 
' but Mabel lagged behind, putting her brushes, etc., in 
order. 

“ En route, Madame, depechons-nous ! ” called out 
the gar (lien. 

She snatched her loonnet and shawl and was hurrying 
awa}^, when suddenly a gentleman lifted one of the crim- 
son portieres close by, that she had never seen raised 
before. The intruder might have been of an}" age ; all 
Mabel saw was that he was a gentleman. 

A gentleman. How commonplace the word sounds ; 
3'et who has ever been able to define it? Mabel felt 
that she was in the presence of one novv. She felt it in 
the low bend of the patrician head, as the stranger, 
coming brusquely upon hei’, arrested his step respect- 
fullv, while he held aside the red drapeiy, bowing an 
apology for his intrusion. 

Almost involuiitaril}", she answered the bow, seeing 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


237 


- that he would not advance without that tacit permission. 
_ He let the curtain fall, and came out, and passed her. 
“ She then rolled her easel down the galleiy. The stran- 
ger turned back, and wmlked quicklj" up to her. 

“ Allow me. Mademoiselle,” he said, raising his hat ; 
and he put his hand on her easel. 

Mabel let go her hold of it. There was, in spite of 
the courtly deference of his manner, a certain shade of 
authority that compelled submission ; it said, as plainly 
I as tone and look could say, “This is my duty; you 
!: must not oppose it.” 

I On reaching the door of the c/iambre de deharras^ as 
I it was called, he turned the easel round to make its en- 

trance more convenient. The light fell upon the can- 
! vas, a soft, evening light, that mellowed the tones of 

i the coloring, making the picture look what it really 

I lacked but little of being — a fine work of art. 
j The stranger looked intently for some seconds at the 
1 canvas, and pushed the easel on to its proper place. 

[ “I thank you,” said Mabel timidly. 

; “ Maj* 1 venture to ask you a question, Mademoi- 

I selle ? ” 

j There was a high-bred courtesy in his manner that 
! might have won permission to question a queen. 

! Mabel bowed. 

1 “ Are 3 ’ou studying as an artist, or as an amateur? ” 

^ “ As an artist.” 
i “ You wMll be a great one ! ” 

He raised his hat, and went back into the Galerie 
d’ Apollon. 

^ “I wonder who he is? ” mused Mabel, as the manh" 

1 figure disappeared through' one of the crimson-curtained 
; doors ; “ probably a prince.” 


238 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

ISS JONES called for her young friend one 



±Vi, Thursday afternoon, and the two set out to- 
gether for Mr. Grinaldi’s with the precious Claude that 
was to make their fortune. 

Mr. Grinaldi received them with his usual blunt 
politeness. But he was delighted with the picture. He 
set it standing on a chair, and viewed it from several 
lights, making a shade with his hand, and fixing his 
keenest observation on it. 

“ A very prett\’ painting indeed, j’oung lady ; a very 
pretty painting,” he repeated, and walked leisurely back 
to his desk. 

“ And now, let me hear what price 3’ou put on it.” 

“ I wanted to ask 3’our advice about that,” she re- . 
plied ; “-I have not the least idea how much it may be 
worth.” 

“That’s not the question. The question is, what 
will it bring? ” 

Mabel looked appealing!}' to Miss Jones. 

“ I have heard of a good copy bringing a hundred 
pounds,” ventured the governess timidly. 

“A hundred fiddlesticks!” snapped Mr. Grinaldi. 
“Don’t let foolish people puff you up with nonsensical 
expectations,” he said, turning to Mabel; “beginners 
must begin at the beginning, and the beginning of the 
profits is very small indeed.” 

“ My expectations are in proportion to my merits,” 
observed Mabel humbly, “ that is to say — ” 

“Preposterously high!” completed the bookseller 
curtly. “ It is n’t a question of merit, as I said before ; 
if it were — but that is not the point. However, I see 
you are not able to judge for yourself, so I will keep 
the picture here, and do the best I can with it.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


239 


‘‘How kind you are, Monsieur!” exclaimed Mabel 
impulsively. 

“No, Mademoiselle, I’m not. I’ll tell 3'ou what I 
am, I’m cross.” 

“I wish everybod^y were cross like you!” she said, 
smiling at the face that wanted to look angiy, but could 
not. 

The bright hope shining out of her features exasper- 
ated him. What business, in the name of the stars, 
had a creature like this in Paris? Wh\’ did n’t that old 
fright teach the child some common-sense, and bundle 
her home to England, instead of talking unmitigated 
bosh about hundreds of pounds? 

“ When ma}" I call again?” inquired Mabel. 

“ Whenever you. like.” 

“ I mean when do you think the picture is likely to 
be sold?” 

Mr. Grinaldi flew at his spectacles. 

“Did I make any promises as to how or when the 
picture would be sold?” he demanded wrathfulh^ 

“ I merely asked — I thought — ” stammered Mabel. 

“Did I, or did I not, sav .you were not to count on 
my selling it at all?” And he brought his arms down 
upon the desk. 

“I’m sure you are very kind in taking anj’ trouble 
•about it at all,” affirmed Mabel gentlj^. 

“’A hundred pounds!” he cried, scowling at Miss 
Jones from under his blue glasses. “Nice nonsense 
for an}" one to be lilling your head with ! ” 

“ No one filled it ; I mean Miss Jones did n’t,” said 
Mabel, rising to her friend’s defence ; “ she is the only 
friend I have, and she is as kind to me as if I were 
her own child.” The tears were rising in spite of 
her. 

“ I should be sorry you thought me unwise enough 
to encourage Miss Stanhope in overrating the value 
of her efforts,” put in Miss Jones, by way of a peace- 
offering. 

“ There .you are again ! Did I say she overrated her 
eflforts, or their value? Did I speak of value at all? I 


240 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


spoke of expectations. Are 3’ou living on the expecta- 
tions? ” he asked, lowering his voice. 

“ No,” Mabel replied fainth’. It had not quite come 
to that, but it was terribly near it. 

“Well, that’s something !” grumbled the old man. 
“ How man}’ lessons have you got?” 

“ None ; I devoted all m3' time to painting.” 

“ M}’ dear 3’oung lad}’,” resunted Mr. Grinaldi, in a 
gentler tone, “it would be cruel kindness to deceive 
you ; but it may be a long time before I find a purchaser 
for your picture.” 

Mabel colored, and then grew pale. 

“ I may find one to-morrow ; but it is very unlikely. 
I may have to wait months. Meantime, what are you 
going to do ? ” 

“ I must try and get some lessons,” she answered 
despondingly. 

“Then lose no time in trying; and remember,” he 
added, holding his hand across the desk, “ if I can be 
of any use to you, you may count upon me.” 

Mabel took his hand, and a hot tear fell upon it. The 
bookseller felt an uncomfortable twinge at his heart. 

“ Look in one of these days,” he said, “ and see how 
your Claude goes on.” ' 

Mabel moved away without trusting herself to an- 
swer. Miss Jones made a respectful bow, which Mr. 
Grinaldi acknowledged by a surly nod. 

Dear Miss Jones ! She w’ould have shielded Mabel 
in her heart from every bitter blast, and this short- 
sighted old gentleman persisted in barking at her as if 
she were a wolf prowling about a lamb. 

JMabel left the bookseller’s, feeling quite crushed with 
disappointment. Where was the use of struggling, if 
success was so unattainable? She did not want to 
make a fortune, to live in comfort even ; all she asked 
was to earn her daily bread honestly and humbly, — to 
carry her cross without sinking under it. They said 
she had talent. Mr. Grinaldi expressed unqualified 
admiration of her work ; yet she might starve while he 
waited for a purchaser who would turn it into bread ! 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


241 


“ Vous serez iin grand artiste,’’ the princely stranger 
at the Louvre had prophesied. Mabel laughed a low, 
nervous laugh that made Miss Jones start. 

“ What is it, my darling? ” 

“We can’t come and keep house together just yet,” 
answered Mabel with a forced smile. 

“ By and by, dear, please God ; it will all come in 
good time.” 

The parts were reversed now. Instead of damping 
Mabel’s over-sanguine hopes. Miss Jones felt it her 
duty to revive them. The result of the interview was 
less startling to her, because she had not allowed her- 
self to expect anything very satisfactory from it. 

“After all, my child, it is only what I expected,” 
she observed cheerfully. “ Remember how I warned 
you not to be too sanguine about the immediate sale. 
I am sure Mr. Grinaldi will do his best to find a buyer 
for it. He admired it very much himself, and no doubt 
everybody else will. But what do you say about the 
lessons ? ” 

“ Where am I to find any ? ” asked Mabel ; “he was 
not very encouraging about it last time, nor indeed this 
time either.” 

“ Still, there are lessons to be had ; 3’ou have as good 
a chance of finding them as another.” 

“What’s that?” interrupted Mabel, stopping before 
a stationer’s shop. There was a printed placard in the 
window, bearing the following announcement : “Lessons 
in music by a pupil of the Conservatoire and of Mr. 
Herz ; one franc, at the pupil’s residence.” 

“ Suppose we go in and leave your address?” sug- 
gested Miss Jones. 

Mabel turned the handle of the door and walked in. 

“ I am looking for pupils in English and drawing,” 
she said to the piquante looking young woman who 
presided. “I see you are kind enough to lend your 
assistance to teachers in search of pupils ; may I ask 
you to take down 1113^ address ? ” 

“ Avec infiniment de plaisir. Mademoiselle.” 

The papetiere dipped her pen in a silver inkstand,. 

16 


242 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


and held it daintily over an open address-book, awaiting 
her applicant’s dictation. 

^ “Do 3’oii think it likely I may find an3" pupils through 
3’our recommendation ? ” inquired Mabel, when the ad- 
dress was written. 

“It’s not impossible! but 3'ou see. Mademoiselle, 
there are so man3" wanting to teach.” 

“ And not so man3" wanting to learn?” 

“Yes, likewise many wanting to learn; but most 
people, nowada3’s, prefer taking bonnes for their chil- 
dren, or else sending them to school ; les institutrices 
ne sont plus a la mode, vo3'ez-vous.” 

The necessity that made institutrices was, neverthe- 
less, as strong as ever ; povert3' does not go out of 
fashion, thought Mabel. 

“ Have 3’ou been to the agents ! ” inquired the shop- 
keeper, with an expression of kindly interest. 

“ No,” answered Miss Jones, speaking for the first 
time, “ Mademoiselle has not, but I have repeatedly, 
on m3’ own account. I might be more fortunate on m3’ 
friend’s.” 

“ Mon Dieu, oui,” acquiesced the Frenchwoman, with 
a candor more encouraging to Mabel than flattering to 
Miss Jones; “I would certainly’ advise Mademoiselle 
to tiy the agents. Madame Pizalet is the most repan- 
due ; have ces dames got her address?” 

“Yes, thank you,” replied Miss Jones; “I have 
been there twice.” 

“ Allons, Mesdames, bonne chance!” said the pa- 
peiiere^ as she wished them good-b3’. 

“ Can you come with me now to this Madame Piza- 
let?” asked Mabel. She would have gone to Cochin- 
CJiina as readil3’, had there been a lesson at the journe3’'s 
end. 

“Yes, dear,” replied the governess, “I can go an3’- 
where 3’ou like for the next two hours.” 

The agent lived in the Rue St. Honore ; the3^ found 
her at home. 

Madame Pizalet was a woman between fort3’ and 
fifty. She had never been married, but adopted the 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


243 


Madame pour se poser un peu^''' she said. She lived 
on a fourth stoiy, and received her visitors in a small 
room with green curtains, a green cloth upon the table, 
and a high, legal-looking chest of drawers. The room 
was called the cabinet d' etudes ; though what etudes 
were carried on there it might have puzzled Madame 
Pizalet to define, — unless, perhaps, psychological studies 
on the battle of life, the mutability of human things, 
and the shallowness of human hopes, — which the agent 
might have indulged in to her heart’s content. 

“La bonne Miss!” she exclaimed from behind her 
green-baize table, “ how contrary things will be in this 
world ! I am alwa3^s thinking and speaking of you, and 
proposing 3*011 to my clientile^ and eveiy one knows it 
is large enough ! Well, nothing comes of it. I can’t 
make it out.” 

“It’s something to have kind thoughts and good 
wishes,” replied Miss Jones good-humoredl3*, “but I 
. trust something more substantial ma3* come of them for 
my 3*oung friend. Permettez-moi de vous introduire : 
Miss Stanhope, Madame Pizalet.” 

“ Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mademoi- 
1 selle,” and the agent bowed patronizingl3^ to the daugh- 
\ ter of Sir John Stanhope. 

“ Mademoiselle wishes to give lessons, in painting 
principally, but she is quite competent to teach music, 
French, and English,” said Miss Jones. 

“Bravo! bravo!” applauded Madame Pizalet, as ' 
the governess brought out the list of Mabel’s accom- 
plishments ; “and Mademoiselle- wishes to place her- 
self in a famil3* ? ” 

“ I should prefer finding employment in tuition,” 
answered Mabel, rather abashed by the patronizing fh’ 

! of the agent. 

I “ What a misfortune ! ” exclaimed the latter, clasp- 
I ing her hands. “I gave away this morning just the 
: ver3^ thing that would have suited you. Four hours a 
; day in a rich Russian family, to instruct a little girl in 
i painting and English.” 

An exclamation of disappointment broke from Mabel. 


244 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Miss Jones made no remark ; she remembered that on 
the occasion of her two former visits, Madame Pizalet 
had expressed similar distress at Miss Jones’s being a 
day too late for an excellent lesson — “ une chose toiit- 
a-fait exceptionnelle.” 

“ There is nothing on your list, now, likely to suit? ” 
asked the governess. 

‘ ‘ Voyons ! ” the agent put her pencil to her nose and 
meditated. 

“ A lady came 3"esterday, and asked me for une per- 
sonne tres distinc/uee to give lessons to an artist, or to 
translate, — in fact, I do not quite remember what the 
requirements were, onl}’ she held to its being une per- 
sonne distinguee. I think Mademoiselle will satisfy the 
most exacting taste on that score ; ” and Madame Pizalet 
bowed a compliment to Mabel. 

“ Is the artist her husband?” inquired Miss Jones. 

“ She did not say ; I rather fanc}^ her son.” 

“ Then I fear Mademoiselle would be too 3’oung,” 
remarked Miss Jones hesitatingly. 

Madame Pizalet shrugged her shoulders. 

“ A/a/bi, where one has to w^ork, one must not be 
too difficile. A lesson to a 3’oung man or an old one is 
paid the same. There is not such a choice that one 
can afford to be particular. At all events, 3'ou can tr3’ ; 
if it does not succeed, it costs nothing.” 

“Just so,” assented Mabel, “ then pra3’ let me have 
the address.” 

Madame Pizalet wrote it on the reverse of one of her 
own cards, — “ Monsieur Avenel, 3 Rue St. Nicolas,” 
— and handed it to Miss Stanhope. 

“ How much am I in your debt, Madame?” inquired 
the 3'oung lad3% rising. 

“ Five francs, Mademoiselle. In case 3’ou obtain a 
situation or tuitions through my agenc3’, the commis- 
sion is five per cent.” 

Mabel laid her fee on the table, and wishing Madame 
Pizalet good-morning, withdrew. 

“ Va pour la Rue St. Nicolas!” she said, as they 
passed out of the porte each ere. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


245 


“ Suppose, dear, you let me go first and ascertain, 
what sort of people they are?’' proposed Miss Jones, 
standing still and looking very much perplexed. 

“ My dear friend,” remonstrated Mabel, speaking 
with gentle firmness, “ you foi’get that it is an unlooked- 
for blessing that I should have 3’ou here to help me 
with 3’our love and j^our protection. I must not throw 
the lion’s share of the burden on you. We ma}' be 
thrust still wider apart one of these days, and I had 
better learn to fight my battles alone.” 

Miss Jones felt that she was right. It was gall and 
wormwood to her to see Mabel engaged in- such a fight 
as this, — the coarse, rough tug of material warfai-e, 
fighting against humiliation and poverty’, — a hideous 
fight. Still, she felt the truth of the 3^oung girl’s repl^' ; 
she must learn to stand alone. 

“ You are right, m3’ child,” she answered. 

Mabel talked all the wa3’, — nonsense for the most 
part ; but it was better to keep chattering like a parrot 
than to leave hei’self and Miss Jones to their thoughts. 

The3’’ came to No. 3 Rue St. Nicolas. 

“ Is Madame Avenel chez elle f ” asked Mabel at the 
lodge. 

“Monsieur Avenel,” corrected the porter, “ au cin- 
quieme, la porte a gauche.” 

Mabel walked bravely up the stairs. Miss Jones 
following. 

The3^ were shown at once into the artist’s studio, — a 
large room lighted from the top. 

Monsieur Avenel, attired in a blouse, was working at 
a full-length picture, apparently a portrait. Standing 
against the wall was an unfinished picture, representing 
Joan of Arc at the coronation of the king. 

“ Moshu Avenel ? ” said Miss Jones, addressing the 
gentleman. 

He rose, pallet in hand. 

“A votre service, Madame;” and he placed two 
chairs for his visitors. 

“ Your wife, or some member of 3’our family, has been 
seeking for a professor of English,” said Miss Jones. 


£46 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ I have been looking for one my self corrected the 
gentleman. 

‘ ‘ Then I fear we have intruded upon you needlessly.” 
Miss Jones rose abruptly, and unconsciously drew a step 
nearer to Mabel. 

“Who gave you my address, ''Mesdames? ” inquired 
the artist. 

“ Madame Pizalet,” replied the governess. 

“Ah, I spoke to her yesterda}^ ; I didn’t expect 
she ’d remember it ten minutes afterwards. C’est une 
blague, que Madame Pizalet.” Monsieur Avenel beat 
time with his brush against his pallet. “ But one need 
not refuse holy water because the devil brings it.” He 
drew a three-legged stool towards him and sat down. 
“ Which of these ladies did Madame Pizalet destine to 
be m}’ instructress ? ” was his cool inquiry. 

“ Moshu,” said Miss Jones, “ there is evidently some 
mistake, some malontondou. M3’ friend wished to 
give lessons in English, and Madame Pizalet told us 
a lad}’ of 3’our name had called on her to ask for a 
teacher ; she could not sa}’ whether it was for the lady’s 
father or' husband the lessons were wanted, but she 
urged us to call and hear the particulars.” 

“ Madame Pizalet is a humbug,” repeated the gentle- 
man, crossing his legs with provoking coolness. “ She 
thought it might have sc-andalized fxjevne etjoliefille to 
propose her giving lessons to a gargon ; but ‘ honi soit 
qui mal 3^ pense,’ as your British Lion says. Why 
should idiotic prejudices stand between enterprise and 
success ? I would as soon take the portrait of a kan- 
garoo or a Hottentot as I would the portrait of & prince, 
for tlie matter of that ! ” 

There was no use assuming an air of outraged dignit}^ 
in answer to such absurdity, coupled as it was with 
imperturbable sang-froid. 

“ He is either a great knave or a great fool,” thought 
Miss Jortes. 

“The fact is,” resumed Monsieur Avenel, caressing 
the black bush under his chin, “ I don’t so much want 
lessons as some one to translate. But pray be seated, 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


247 


i 




!■ 

II 

\m 

I 


Mesdames.” It siiddenl}^ dawned on him that it was 
rather inoongruons for the host to remain seated while 
his visitors were standing. 

Mabel sat down, parth" from curiosity, parti}' because 
she was very tired. Miss Jones sat down, too. 

“Was it a book ^’ou wished to have translated?” 
inquired Mabel, speaking for the first time. 

“ A book ! ” echoed the artist, arching his straight, 
black eyebrows till they looked like two leeches coiled 
over his eyes. “ No, Mademoiselle, I don’t practise 
literature. They say that poetry and painting are 
twin sisters ; but if they are, they are so diahlement 
jalouses of each other that it is better for both they 
should live apart. The translation I want is to be 
done vica voce. Art is passing through a crisis,” 
continued the gentleman ; “we are in an age of quacks, 
and the greatest quack of the day is Madame Pizalet. 
Had she told you — ” 

“ Moshu,” broke in Miss Jones, “if you wish my 
friend to write out translations — ” 

“ Speak out translations,” corrected Monsieur 
Avenel. “ As I said, the greatest humbug of the day 
is Madame Pizalet ; next to her, photography.” 

“He’s decidedly a fool,” soliloquized Miss Jones. 
“Ensuite, Moshu,” she said aloud. 

“I am an artist, Mesdames, and devoted to my art; 
but art does not pay, and humbug does. I am driven 
to do a little humbug in self-defence.” He threw aside 
his pallet, rose, and opened a door close at hand. 
“ This,” he said, pointing to the room witliin, “ this is 
the prose of my life, and this the poetry,” indicating 
the pictures scattered through the studio in various 
states of progress; “ I am an artist here, a charlatan 
there. The crowd come to the charlatan,^ the few 
to the artist.” He closed the door of the humbug 
department, and walked back to his three-legged stool. 
“ Foremost among the customers of humbug are the 
Americans and the English.” 

“Moshu!” 'cried Miss Jones, “ vous voulez nous 
insulter 1 ” 


248 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“Pas le moins du monde,” replied the gentleman, 
with unruffled equanimity. “Well, Mademoiselle,” 
turning to Mabel, “ when people come to pay for hum- 
bug, they like to have their sa}" about it. Now, when 
“the}' say it in English, I can’t answer them ; and I want 
some one to come here for a few hours every da}', and 
speak English for me. Comprenez-vous ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Miss Stanhope, rising; “yes, I 
understand you. The position would not suit me.” 
Pride and angry emotion sent the hot blood to her 
cheeks ; she looked beautiful beyond expression. 

“Sit for my ‘Joan of Arc,’ and name your own 
price ! ” cried Monsieur Avenel impetuously. 

Mabel’s eye flashed. She made no answer, but 
opened the door, and walked out, leaving Miss Jones 
to have the last word with the artist. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


249 


il 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

M adame GROSJEAN recovered from her sore 
throat, and as soon as she emerged from the 
dirty stocking, she paid a visit to Mabel, and vowed 
I that the joy of seeing her was greater than the pleasure 
of getting well again. But illness, she said, was an 
expensive luxury to poor people ; hers had cost a deal 
of money. Would Mademoiselle kindly pay the last 
month’s little bill before entering on a new one ? Ma- 
dame Grosjean drew a dirty bit of paper from her 
pocket, and handed it to her tenant. 

Mabel gave an involuntary start ; a hundred and 
seventy francs ! First came the lodging, then thirty 
francs a month for service, thirt}" francs for firing, and 
: ten francs for hire of linen and plate. It seemed moder- 
■ ate enough in detail, but the total was alarming. At 
: an}" inconvenience this could not go on. She took out 
I her purse, paid the money without a word of expostu- 
r lation, and let the concierge leave the room ; then sum- 
moning all her courage, she hurried after her on the 
stairs, and under favor of the darkness, thanked Ma- 
dame Grosjean for the zeal with which she had served 
her, but declared her inability to afford her good offices 
any longer. 

“ Coinme Mademoiselle voiidra,” replied Madame 
Grosjean stiffly; “■ if Mademoiselle thinks she can get 
her menage done cheaper and better by somebod}" else, 

' she is quite right to tiy.” 

f “I don’t intend trying,” said Mabel gentl}" ; “ I am 
sure 3"on have been very attentive and very economical, 
but I must manage to do without a servant in future ; 
I cannot afford one.” 

“Mademoiselle knows best,” observed the concierge 
; drjdy, and went on her wa}", not rejoicing, but gnashing 


250 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


her teeth with vexation at having killed the goose that 
laid the golden egg. 

Mabel had grown used to the discomfort which at 
first had seemed almost unendurable. She lighted her 
fire as expeditions!}^ as Madame Grosjean herself, swept 
out her room, and arranged her mhiage in one-half the 
time it had cost her during the first few daj's of her 
loneliness. 

The only thing she had not mastered, in fact that she 
had not attempted, was the cooking. The idea of pot- 
tering among those dirt}' saucepans, over that dirty 
fourneau in the dirty little kitchen, was simply absurd. 
She had been living for the last fortnight chiefly on 
coffee and bread, with an occasional extra of cold ham 
from the cliarcutieP s., and this regimen was telling on 
her more than she suspected. Her strength was grow- 
ing less, her cheek paler, her whole aspect languid. 

Knowing how much Miss Jones took her grievances 
to heart, Mabel had refrained from mentioning the up- 
set that had taken place in her menage., but now that 
she had taken the bull by the horns, and was going to 
depend solely on her own exertions, she thought it 
better to speak. Miss Jones might assist her by some 
hints from her own experience. 

Mabel told her the truth tlie next time they met. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! ” exclaimed Miss Jones, looking 
so wofully distressed that Mabel burst out laughing. 

“I can’t help thinking,” she cried, “ how absurd it 
is of both of us to let such a hetise worry us. What 
does it signify, after all ? un poco pin., lai p)oeo meno ! 
I have got used to beaiing harder things than the loss 
of Madame Grosjean’s society, morning and evening. 
By and by I dare say I shall not miss her in the least.” 

“ But, my child, your health will miss her,” urged 
Miss Jones ruefully, ‘‘you cannot go on without eating 
meat.” 

“IT get used to it.” 

“ Nonsense, Mabel ; you talk like a child.” 

“ Well, what can I do? I can’t cook the meat myself.” 

“You must learn to cook it! Begin by a mutton- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


251 


chop ; it ’s the easiest thing in the world. Take 3’our 
chop, and shake some pepper and salt over it — ” 

‘‘ When it’s cooked?” 

“ No, before it ’s cooked ; then when 3’onr fire is nice 
and red, pop the chop on. the gridiron, and keep turning 
it from one side to the other till it ’s done.” 

“ How am I to tell when it’s done? Cut it open?” 

“Oh dear, no! That would let the juice run out: 
just feel it b}’ pressing the knife flat on it ; instead of 
being flabby, it wall be firm.” 

“ Well, I ’ll try,” said Mabel, with an air of despera- 
tion ; “and you must come and eat m3' first chop; 
shall it be to-morrow?” 

“ To-morrow, 8aturda3\ Well, darling, I fear I 
could not; shall it be to-day?” 

“ No ; 3'ou forget I can’t eat meat to-dav.” 

“ Then let it be to-morrow ; 01113’ [ shall not be able 
to come early enough to give 3'ou a lesson, as I should 
like to do.” 

“ I don’t want any more lesk)n than what 3'ou have 
given me,” returned Mabel conceitedh’ ; “ it’s as eas3' 
as A B C. Suppose we have some potatoes, — could 
3’ou tell me how to boil potatoes ? ” 

“ Yes, dear; that is easier than the chop. You put 
3’our potatoes into a saucepan of cold water, and when 
the w'ater boils, the3'' are cooked.” 

“ How clever I shall feel if I cook the dinner all by 
m3’self ! ” exclaimed Mabel. 

“ Mabel,” said Miss Jones, “ I’ll only come on one 
condition : I must bring m3’ own chop.” 

“ Miss Jones ! — ” 

“ Then I won’t come.” 

Mabel was silent for a moment. 

“ Bring 3’our chop,” she said shorth^ She was hurt 
and vexed ; but she felt that Miss Jones was right. 
“What am I to sa3' to the butcher?” she asked 
presenth'. 

“ Let us go in and sa3’ something to him now,” said 
Miss Jones, as the3’ came close to a butcher’s stall. 

The purchase was made, and Mabel, having requested 


252 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


an extra piece of paper to wrap np the raw meat, rolled 
her handkerchief round it, and carried it away under 
her shawl. Then the}" bought the potatoes, which Miss 
Jones took charge of till they reached the omnibus 
station, where she parted from the 3'oung cook, promis- 
ing to be with her next day at half-past six. 

Mabel set about acquiring her new accomplishment 
with a thorough determination to conquer its difficulties. 
She tucked up her dress and her sleeves, tied a hand- 
kerchief round her head, and drew an old pair- of gloves 
on her hands. 

The potatoes were put dow"n at five, and boiled ac- 
cording to directions ; then the saucepan was drawn off 
the fire, and left to simmer on one side till it was time 
to serve. Dinner was to be at half-past six, and Mabel 
was anxious to have eveiything ready the moment Miss 
Jones arrived. The bellows were brought to bear upon 
the fire till it was a sheet of glowing embers ; then the 
chops, duly peppered and salted, w"ere put on the grid- 
iron. 

Mabel thought it would be a good opportiinitj", while 
they were cooking, to lay the cloth ; so off she started 
to the salon, and made ready her simple board, adorn- 
ing it with a nice clean cloth, and polishing up her 
spoons and forks till they looked quite bright. Sud- 
denly a smell of smoke and fry warned her that the 
victims on the gridiron might want to be turned. She 
hastened back to the kitchen. Horror of horrors ! the 
whole place was thick with smoke, the gridiron and 
chops were enveloped in total darkness, the air was sat- 
urated with fried grease. Mabel rushed to the window 
and threw it wide open ; but before she turned round, 
a tremendous noise of hissing and fizzing deafened her 
ears. The sudden draught had blown the embers into 
a blaze, and now the chops were visible in the midst of 
red flames, seething and roaring up the chimne}’. 

Good heavens, what was she to do? Something was 
on fire, and must be put out, — whether it was the chops 
or the chimney, or both, the cook could not guess ; but 
rushing for her water-jug, she flung the contents over the 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


253 


conflagration. Thereupon followed a noise that Mabel 
could onl}' compare to a railway explosion ; a shower 
of hot ashes darkened the air, and then the tempest 
p. subsided. She stood at the window, and looked aghast 
J at the smouldering ruins of her cookery. 

B There was a ring at the door. It could only be Miss 
T Jones. With an exclamation of relief, she rushed to 

i let her in. But it was not Miss Jones, it was a gentle- 
man, a very tall gentleman. In the darkness, Mabel 
could discern nothing more. Her visitor seemed as 
much at sea as herself. 

“ Mademoiselle Mabel, demeure-t-elle ici?” he asked. 
“Monsieur I’Abbe ! mon bon Monsieur TAbbe,” 
cried Mabel, holding out both hands to the old priest. 
She drew him into the little salon, totally forgetful of 
herself, and the ludicrous aspect she presented, — her 
dress tucked up, her arms bare and bespattered, like 
her face, with a shower of smuts, her whole appearance 
so unlike the Mabel of former da3’s that it was no won- 
^ d2Y the Chaplain failed to recognize her in the dim light 
' of the aniichambre. 

5 “ M3" poor child, in what plight do I find 3-011 !” he 

' exclaimed, surve3-ing in disma3" the spotted face, and the 
cambric head-gear covered with a layer oT black ashes. 

“ Such a misfortune as I have just had. Monsieur 
I’Abbe ! ” and Mabel briefl3", but in a state of great 
I ' . excitement, told the story of the fire. 

’ “ You are quite sure it was the chimney?” inquired 

' the Abbe dubiousl3-. 

“It imw have been the chops,” said Mabel. “I 
only hope the fire is quite out ; ” and she ran off to see. 

The Abbe followed her. The only remaining vestige 
of the recent conflagration was- the smoke that still 
rose up from the smouldering charcoal, and the melted 
grease that poured like ink from the gridiron to the 
floor. 

“ Et les cdtelettes, mon enfant? ” said the Abbe, “ I 
don’t see them.” 

Neither did Mabel ; but on looking closer, she per- 
ceived two black lumps at either end of the gridiron. 


254 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“These mast be they,” she said, turning them over 
with the knife. 

“My poor little cook,” said the Abbe pityingly; 
“your first essa}’ has not been ver}^ successful. Let 
me see if we can’t remedy matters. Have 3"ou any 
more chops in the house ? ” 

“ No,” replied Mabel, “there were only two ; Miss 
Jones bought them yesterda}' with the potatoes. I 
hope the potatoes are all right ! ” 

She lifted the lid of the saucepan. Good gracious, 
what had come to the potatoes? The}' might have 
been pomatum, or a decoction of soft soap, — anything 
in fact rather than potatoes. Mabel held the lid in her 
hand, and stared in dismay at the mess in the casserole. 

It was too much for the Abbe’s gravity. He laughed 
till the tears rolled down his cheeks. Mabel joined him. 
What else could she do? 

“ You must set to work, and light the fire again, ma 
petite cuisiniere^^' he said when he had recovered him- 
self, “ and we will see if two cooks are not better than 
one. There is no time to lose ; Miss Jones will arrive 
and find no dinner.” 

Mabel caught up the tongs, and pushed the gridiron 
to one side. Monsieur I’Abbe slipped out of the kitchen, 
and before she knew he was gone the hall-door closed. 

“ He must be gone for the conderge^^' concluded 
Mabel, blowing awa}^ at the charcoal. In a few min- 
utes the Abbe made his appearance ; he had taken the 
ke3' with him and let himself in. 

“ Now let us see if the chimney will take fire this 
time ! ” he said laughingly, and depositing a brown 
paper bag on the table, emptied out a small suppl3' of 
potatoes, and three chops. 

“Oh! Monsieur I’Abbe ! ” cried Mabel, letting fall 
the bellows in her discomfiture. 

“ Eh hien! is the fire read3'? ” demanded her vener- 
able visitor. 

“ I cannot let 3’ou, Monsieur I’Abbe ; indeed I can- 
not 1 ” she protested, putting out her hand to stop him. 

“ You won’t let me have m3" dinner 1 see, I am come 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


255 


to dine with you,” and turning up his wristbands, he 
proceeded to pepper the chops; “you think an old 
Abbe is not clever enough to cook his dinner, do you?” 

There was no use trying to oppose him. Mabel let 
him have his wa}^ and quietly obeyed his injunctions, 
observing very demurely all the details of the operation. 
Thc}' Avere essentially as Miss Jones had given them ; 
onl}" the potatoes were not left soaking in the water after 
they were boiled, and the chops, instead of being left to 
their own devices on the gridiron, were tended and 
turned till they were cooked. 

Miss Jones arrived just as dinner was ready. Her 
astonishment when Mabel brought her into the kitchen, 
and presented her to the chef^ was great. 

They sat down to the frugal meal, and never was 
the daintiest dish of a gourmand more heartily enjo^’ed 
than those chops and boiled potatoes by Mabel and her 
friends. 

The evening passed quickly. The old priest had 
many questions to ask, and listened with fatherl3^ inter- 
est to all Mabel had to tell him. He had been absent 
preaching in one of the provinces, and had onty that ^ 
morning received her letter written weeks ago. 

Independent of the singular interest he had always 
felt in the pretty Here at Belle-Vue, her position now 
was one that enlisted all his sjmipath}'. So young, so 
beautiful, so brave, so cruellj’ isolated as she was, — • 
his heart opened to the self-made orphan with that pure, 
deep tenderness that forms one of the strongest and 
divinest attributes of the Catholic priest. 

Mabel spoke of her bitter disappointment about the 
sale of her picture, and the dimculty, amounting almost 
to impossibility', there seemed to be of her finding em- 
ploy'raent in tuition. 

“ Alas ! alas ! my child, I know it too well,” said the 
Abbe ; “ still there are such things to be had, and I trust 
we may' soon find some for y’ou.” 

Mabel shook her head. 

“ I am growing cowardly',” she said. ^^When I came, 

I had so much courage, so much hope ; but nothing 


256 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


turns out as I expected, and I’ve been here now nearly 
two months. Life is veiy hard, Monsieur FAbbe. I 
don’t mean that work is hard ; but it ’s so hard to find it. 
He hon Dieu could send me something to do if He liked. 
It is love for Him that has made me need it.” There 
was a child-like petulance in the way she spoke, that 
was perfectlj" free from irreverence. 

The old man looked at her with a smile full of indul- 
gence and the tenderest pit}". 

“ God has sent you a glorious work to doF’ he said ; 
“and while you trust in Him, His help will never fail 
you. But repine not if the trial be not shortened at 
3*011 r prayer ; and remember,” he continued with emo- 
tion, “that while we glory in the name of Christian, 
we must expect to find upon our path some splinters of 
our Master’s cross, some thorns from His crown.” 

When he rose to take leave he held his hand a mo- 
ment over her head. Mabel felt as if his prayer must 
call down a blessing straightwa}* from the throne of 
God. 

It was early when the Abbe left them, and the two 
friends sat on some time together, looking into the past 
and the future, and tiying to lighten their cares b}^ 
talking over them. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


257 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


IIREE da3’S after her eventful eulinaiy experiment, 



Mabel received a letter from the Abbe de Ros- 


signol, telling her that Olga Czerlinska, now Baronnede 
Valtimyr, was in Paris, and very anxious to see her. 
She was living in the Champs Elysees. 

It was a long walk for Mabel ; but she was delighted 
at the prospect of meeting Olga, and set out at once to 
her house. 

She was shown into Madame de Valtimyr’s boudoir, 
after passing through several gorgeoush^ furnished 
salons., and found her sometime friend reclining at full 
length on a couch, attired in a flowing white peignoir-. 
The moment she appeared, Olga held out both her 
arms with an exclamation of joyous welcome. 

“ How good of 3'ou to come at. once, my sweet 
Mabel,” she said, embracing her affection atel3’ ; “sit 
down close to me, and let us chat over old times.” 

“Dear Olga! how happ3’ it makes me to see 3’ou ; 
but I don’t like to find 3’Ou on an invalid’s couch,” 
observed IMabel, with affectionate interest. 

“ Je suis un vrai patraque,” replied Olga, with a 
languid smile. 

“Are 30U recovering from an illness?” inquired 
Mabel anxioush". 

The Baroness shrugged her .shoulders. 

“No; it is a case of general languor, a shrinking 
from the least exertion, or any sort of exercise, except 
dancing. It’s most unaccountable, but. I can dance all 
night, and be none the worse for it next da3% while the 
fatigue of walking up and down stairs prostrates me- 
completely. It ’s a peculiar case.” 

“I should think it was,” said Mabel. “You used 
not to be delicate at school.” 


17 


258 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


‘‘ Je n’etais pas fatiguee de la vie,” answered Olga. 

“ But 3’our life has not been a fatiguing one, has it?” 
inquired Mabel. 

“ Pauvre amie ! ” exclaimed the Baroness, throwing 
up her hands expressivel}* ; ‘‘I don’t think any one 
can have a harder life than I have. I never have a 
moment’s rest. It’s from one ennui to another. 

“And 3’our husband, Olga? — tell me something 
about him.” 

“He is ennui numero un ! The best of men, but 
so fatiguing ! ” 

Mabel was confounded, both at the admission and 
the coolness with which it was made. 

“ But he ’s kind to you, and fond of you, is he not? ” 
she asked. 

“ Fond of me? Yes, as far as he knows how. After 
his horses, and his dogs, and his guns, I believe he 
loves his wife ; perhaps I come between the dogs and 
the guns. He gives me very little of his society, and 
when he does, it bores me to death ; he can talk of 
nothing but revolvers and rifles, or his stable. Then, 
b}^ the w^a}’ of showing what an interest he takes in me 
and m3’ goings-on, he pulls me over the coals, to know 
where I’ve been, and what I ’ve done, and whom I have 
seen since w’e met. But let us talk of 3’ou, cher ange. 
What are 3'ou doing? When did 3’ou come? Tell me 
all about yourself.” 

“Did not Monsieur I’Abbe tell you eveiy thing?” 
asked Mabel, in surprise. 

“ I believe he did ; but he’s so ennuyeux^ poor, dear 
old man ! I never listen to half he sa3’s. Tell me all 
about 3’ourself.” 

“ Can this be the same Olga that I knew two 
years ago, — so good, so earnest, so unaffected?” 
thought Mabel. This was not the friend who could 
avail her much. She thought it better to curtail her 
confidence, and merel}" stated the broad facts of her 
position. 

“And 3'QU will have courage to give lessons?” ex- 
claimed Olga, when she had concluded. “ But you 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


259 


were meant to be a heroine. Milly Jackson used to sfiy 
5’ou were born for something extraordinary. Apropos, 
I had a visit from Milly not long ago. She is married 
to a rich banker, and is happy as the da}' is long.” 

“I’m delighted to hear it!” exclaimed Mabel 
heartily. “ She was a good girl, full of fun, and full 
of heart.” 

“ But what could have possessed you to become a 
Catholic?” asked Olga curiously. “It’s so much 
easier being a Protestant ; no confession, no fasting, no 
fish Fridays. I think one is very lucky to have been 
born a Protestant.” 

What was Mabel to say? No argument could have 
had any effect on a mind so utterly frivolous as Olga’s 
evidently was. 

Olga was about to speak, when the door was thrown 
open, and the servant announced, “ Madame la Vicom- 
tesse de Chavigny.” 

“ Chere Madeleine!” cried the Baroness, leaning 
forward to greet the new-comer, “ there never was a 
friend like you. To think of your coming out to-day 
after the fatigue of last night! But I suppose you 
want to know what everybody said of your ball. It 
was perfect, ma cherie ; even that spiteful Marquise de 
Eongecoeur said it was the most brilliant of the season. 
And you looked ravissante! Your toilette was an 
inspiration ! ” 

‘‘Ma bonne Olga! every one does not see me wdth 
your eyes,” said the Vicomtesse modestly. “ Mais il 
me semble — ” and she looked inquiringly at Mabel. 

“Yes, to be sure!” cried Olga; “you know 
each other. Mabel, you haven’t forgotten Madeleine 
Kenard ? ” 

Mabel held out her hand ; she was not prepared for 
the eflervescing tenderness with which the Vicomtesse 
embraced her. 

Madeleine and she had never been friends. There 
was something cunning and sharp in the gill’s char- 
acter, peculiarly repulsive to Mabel. She could hardly 
recognize the saucy, uncouth school-girl of two }ears 


260 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


back in the graceful woman of fashion to-day. The 
change in Madeleine, so far, was for the better, but it 
scarcely surprised her less than the alteration visible in 
Olga. 

“ C here petite., I am so delighted to see you,” said 
Madame de Chavigii}', with a charming little air of 
protection. She was married, — consequent!}’ had a 
right to patronize Mabel. “You are alw’ays pretty; 
a little paler than at Belle-Vue. Have 3 'ou seen 
Juno? MJiat a life she led ns! It gives one the 
shudders to think of it. Parlous un peu de nos maris, 
chere,” she said, turning to Olga; “ que devient le 
votre ? ” 

“Plow should I know?” demanded the Baroness; 
“ there ’s not a man in Paris I see less of. But where 
is Monsieur de Chavigny? ” 

“Chut!” cried Madeleine, holding up her finger, 
“don’t mention him. You know the saying, ‘speak 
of — ’ It’s such a relief to get rid of him for a whole 
day.” 

“ I wonder which is worse, to have too much of 
one’s husband, or too little ? ” observed Olga. 

“ Oh, too much, ma chlre^ believe me,” affirmed 
Madeleine. “I’ve given up having a day on account 
of Auguste. P’ancy a man sitting in his wife’s salon on 
her reception-da}’ ! ” , 

“ Pas possible ! ” 

“ It’s a positive fact. I told him it made me quite 
ridiculous ; but he only laughed and said it amused him 
to see the pretty women and their toilettes.'' 

“Yes, 1 dare say,” observed Olga, “but what a 
false position it puts yon in with ces messieurs ; they 
must be afraid to open their mouths to yon.” 

“ That’s what I told Auguste ; but he said it was all 
hetise^ that they might make la cour to me as much as 
they liked, — which is simply ridiculous.” 

“ Pauvre amie ! ” sympathized the Baroness. 

“Congratulate yourself on having a husband who is 
un homme d’esprit," returned the ill-used wife, rising 
to take her departure. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


261 - 


“ I don’t know if un homme de coeur is not better,” 
murmured Madame de Valtimvr with a sigh. 

“I’m charmed to have met 3’ou, ma petite; mind 
you come and see me. Au revoir, ma eherieN said 
Madame de Chavignj’. 

“ A bientot, ma belle ! ” and the friends kissed. 

“ She’s charming, is she not?” exclaimed Olga, as 
the door closed on the Vicomtesse. 

“ She is much prettier than I expected,” replied 
Mabel, evading a direct answer. 

“ You must go and see her, eher ange.,’* said Olga. 
“ She has a delightful salon ; one meets there the elite 
of talent and fashion, tons les penseurs. She has 
given up her da}", as you heard, but she receives on the 
Saturday evening.” 

“My dear Olga,’’ answered Mabel, “I should be 
quite ‘out of place in a fashionable salon ; I am trying 
to earn my bread.” 

“ Oh ! don’t say that ; it makes me shudder to think 
of it. But it ’s all nonsense your being out of place, 
mon bijou ; with your beauty, you would be an orna- 
ment to any salon. I dare say Madeleine thought of 
it when she asked you to go and see her. Come and 
dine with me on Saturday, and 1 will take you myself 
to the Rue de Grenelle.” 

Mabel hesitated. 

“ If I do,” she said, “ will you speak to Madeleine, 
and ask her to recommend me as a professor of draw- 
ing to some of her friends? ” 

“Of course I will! How stupid of me not to have 
told her about it at once ! She is just the person to be 
of use to you, if she took you up. Oh dear ! how 
fatigued I am I ” and the pretty Polonaise let her head 
droop as if she had not strength to hold it on her 
shoulders. 

Mabel rose. - “ Perhaps I have stayed too long, and 
tired you,” she said. 

“ Oh, no I it ’s not that ; you are a distraction to me. 
Come soon again, cherie^ it will do me good.” 

“ On Saturday, then,” replied Mabel. 


262 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


On Saturday, and we will go together to Made- 
leine’s.” 

“But what about the toilettes^ Olga?” inquired 
Mabel, pausing at the door. “ If it’s necessary to be 
very fine, I can’t go.” 

“ Mettez le premier chiffon venu,” replied Olga; 
“you’re too pretty to want much dress.” 




MABEL STANHOPE. 


263 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ T WONDER who he was ! 

JL Mabel never passed the Louvre without this 
thought recurring to her. 

She had not begun any fresh picture ; she was too 
busy looking for lessons, and till her Claude was sold 
I she considered it would be unwise to undertake another 
! cop3". It was therefore unlikely she should have an 
opportunitj" of finding out “ who he was,” for the 
i present. 

On the Saturda}^ afternoon, about five o’clock, as she 
was preparing her finery, and about to begin her toilet, 
she heard a ring at the door. A visitor was a rare 
occurrence in Mabel’s quiet life ; ‘ Miss Jones or Mon- 
; sieur I’Abbe were the only ones she could expect. 
Equally" glad to welcome either, she ran to open the 
door. It was almost dark ; the little antichambre was 
dusky as night. How did Mabel contrive to see in 
the gloom and recognize her visitor now, while she had 
failed a week ago at the same hour to distinguish her 
old friend the Abbe de Rossignol? 

The stranger apparently recognized her ; for, raising 
his hat, he said in the same voice which had rung once 
in her ear, and ever after in her memoiy, “ I have the 
honor to address Miss Stanhope ? ” 
i Miss Stanhope acknowledged her identity, and re- 
quested the gentleman to walk in. 

She was terribly nervous. What was she to say to 
^ him ? What was he going to sa}' to her ? Could he be 

I come about the picture, or have been sent b}" Olga or 
Monsieur I’Abbe? At Mabel’s invitation he seated 
hi mself. 

1 “ Mademoiselle,” he began, “ before entering on the 

purport of my visit, I must claim your indulgence for the 


264 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


liberty I take in presenting mj’self without having so- 
licited 3"oiir permission. I come without any credentials, 
beyond that of sincere admiration for your talent, and 
a desire to become possessed of some proof of it.” 

“Then it was Mr. Grinaldi who gave 3’ou my ad- 
dress,” said Mabel. 

“No; he gave it to a friend of mine, who bought 
your Claude this morning ; but art is a sort of free- 
masonr}". If my intrusion seems unpardonable to Miss 
Stanhope, I will appeal to the artist to intercede for 
me.” 

“ You are an artist yourself, I infer,” replied 
Mabel. 

“ I ought to be, if I were not too idle to be anything. 
I studied sculpture for a time, and might have attained 
something better than an easy mediocrity in the art, 
had not circumstances placed me beyond the necessity 
of pursuing any study longer than w^as necessary for 
my amusement. Happily, perhaps, for sculpture.” 

< Mabel looked incredulous. “And is your talent 
confined exclusively to sculpture. Monsieur?” 

“ My talent, but not my taste. I am a passionate 
admirer of' painting, especiall}^ the school favored with 
your sympath}^ Mademoiselle.” 

“You must think my s^mipathy very audacious?” 
she said. 

“ Courage is not audacity. AYithout courage there 
can be no true superiority. Better to fail from aspiring 
too high, than never to aspire at all.” 

“ Then you consider that I have failed,” said Mabel, 
a sudden blush betraying her emotion. 

“ Did I say so?” 

“ I fear 3’ou think it ! ” 

“You fear wrong. Mademoiselle ; I have come to 
request you to execute another copy similar to the one I 
saw this afternoon in rny friend’s possession.” 

Mabel could not speak for thankfulness. She had 
succeeded at last ! Was it not too good to be true? 

“ I fear 3’ou are too much occupied to undertake it,” 
observed the gentleman, misconstruing her silence. 


MABEL STANHOPE: 


265 


“ Oh, no ; I am not occupied at all,” replied she with 
frank simplicity ; “ and 3’oii prefer the same picture to 
any other Claude?” she said, making an effort to 
I conceal her agitation. 

I “Perhaps it would be tiresome to \’ou to cop}” it so 
j soon again? In that case I leave 3’ou free to choose 
another ; only let it be a Claude, and as well done as 
i its predecessor. What I said the first time I had the 
honor of seeing 3"ou, I repeat now : persevere, and 3'ou 
will be a great artist ! ” Saying this, he rose and took 
leave of her. 

“ Ma3" I ask 3’our name?” said Mabel, as she ac- 
companied him to the door. 

; “ Fernand de Volque,” replied her visitor. “ I have 

one more favor to ask. Mademoiselle,” he said, as they 
both stood in the entiy ; “ ma3’ I come occasionally to 
the gallery, and see how the work progresses ? ” 

I Mabel hesitated. “ Not for a fortnight, then, if 3"ou 
please,” she answered. 

I: Monsieur de Volque bowed his acknowledgment of 

I’ the favor, as if it had been granted b3" an empress to 
a serf. 

Mabel stood for a moment in the little entiy, listen- 
ing to her visitor’s descending footfalls, before she 
closed the door, and went back to tlie salon. She was 
: in a flutter of excitement. Jt was a very simple incident, 

I after all, but it seemed as if something wonderful had 
befallen her ; as if her life of anxiety^ and drudge r3’- 
j were going to become interesting, almost romantic. 
Then she laughed at herself. What was there romantic 
in the fact of a stranger coming to order a picture of 
her ? It was the most natural thing in the world, under 
her present circumstances. And 3’et, it loas extra- 
i ordinaiy that it should happen to be the mysterious 
I stranger of the Louvre? Then she remembered that 
this was the most natural thing in the whole affair, — 
he was in the habit of going to the Louvre, and looking 
: at the artists cop3ing ; he liked her picture and ordered 
: her to paint it for him. It was very silly of her to be 
I so excited about it all. Nevertheless, she could think 


266 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


of nothing else for the rest of the day ; she kept thinking 
over everything Monsieur de Volque had said, recalling 
his distingue air, his stately manner, his tall, com- 
manding figure, and wondering who he w^as. 

In this cheerful state of mind, her spirits raised by 
the brightening prospects of her laborious future, she 
dressed herself, and set off to Madame de Valtimyr’s. 
Thanks to her nurse, she was able to appear in a suitable 
toilette. 

Lady Stanhope had put aside the ball dresses that 
Mabel had graced so well in her happ}^ da3’s at home ; 
but O’Dowd, in her prudence, thought it well to slip 
in a fresh pink gauze dress with its silk petticoat, in 
case there were a play-da}’ at the convent, and the 
child should want a smart frock. 

When, at seven o’clock, she appeared at Madame de 
Valtimyr s, the Baroness greeted her with a scream of 
delight. 

“ Ma charmante ! ma belle ! comme vous allez faire 
enrager toutes les femmes ce soir ! ” 

“My dear Olga!” exclaimed Mabel in alarm. 

“You will have a succes fou,” insisted Olga ; “Mad- 
eleine will bless me for bringing you.” 

“ Do you mean that. she will be annoyed?” 

“ Oh dear, no I She has too much esprit to be jealous 
of another woman’s beauty, and she likes everything 
that makes her salon attractive. I do hope there will 
be a crowd this evening ; it was rather slow last 
Saturday.” 

“ You are better to-day, Olga,” observed Mabel, as 
her friend rattled on, though she was stUl reclining at 
full length on a divan. 

“Je suis si journaliere? ” replied Olga, growing 
lackadaisical at a moment’s notice, and throwing her 
head back on the cushions. “I was unable to move 
yesterday, with fatigue, and if you knew what I have 
gone through to-day ! ” holding up her hands as if any 
attempt at description were beyond her power. 

“ What did you do, that tired you so?” inquired her 
credulous listener. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


267 


“ Oh, ma cherie., what had I not to do ! ” and Olga 
gave a deep sigh. ‘‘ First, at nine o’clock, just as I was 
taking m3' coffee, there comes a ling ere who wanted to 
see me about some camisoles I ordered a week ago. 
I let her in, though I was inclined to turn over and 
take another doze, and she made me look at handker- 
chiefs and caps, etc. ; in fact, I was tired before I got 
out of bed. Then, after breakfast, in comes m3’ modiste., 
with such loves of bonnets ! I did n’t w’ant an3’, but 
she coaxed me into buving three.” 

“Well, that did not tire 3’ou much!” remarked 
Mabel, laughing. 

“Oh, 3’ou ’ve no idea what it is!” returned the 
Baroness pettishl3\ “Then there came mv boot- 
maker with a whole cargo of fancy boots ; I had to 
choose a pair for m3^ costume at Madame de Negrel’s. 
She is giving a magnificent fanc3’-liall on Thursda3^ 
next; would 3’ou like to come, cherie 

“ To a ball, a fanc3’-ball ! ” Mabel laughed. 

“ Bijou., it would be a distraction to 3’ou ; 3’ou must 
not mope too much, it would spoil your complexion, — 
and it is such a sweet complexion ! Please don’t fret 
it yellow;” and Madame de Valtimyr stroked the 
down3^ cheek affectionately. 

“ I don’t care if it turns mud-color or slyy-blue,” 
answered Mabel, amused and irritated by her friend’s 
frivolous and unreal view of her position. 

“ Oh ! don’t turn a dowdy devote. P* said the Baron- 
ess peevishly; “if there is one thing I hate in the 
world, it’s that.” 

The door leading into the salle-a-manger was thrown 
open by two tall footmen. “ Madame la Baronne est 
servie,” cried the maitre d' hotel. 

The hostess took her friend’s arm, and the two 
walked into the dining-room. ^ 

Covers were laid fbr three ; but no third part3’ 
appeared. 

“And Monsieur de Valtimyr?” inquired Mabel, 
looking at the vacant place. 

“What about him, ma chere?” 


268 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ Don’t 3’ou expect him to dinner? ” 

“ I never expect him.” 

Mabel was shocked. The idea of a wife being on 
such terms with her husband was bad enough, but to 
think of her admitting it with such cool indhference, 
and in presence of her servants too ! 

“ I was in hopes of seeing him this evening,” re- 
marked Mabel in English. 

“ Then 3’ou will be disappointed, ma cherie. If 3’ou 
want to see Monsieur de Valtim3'r, 3’ou must seek him 
somewhere else.” 

The3’ were silent for a while. Olga pushed away her 
soup with a grimace ; it was not eatable, she declared ; 
and lolled back in her chair, the picture of ennui and 
discontent. The two ladies dawdled over their dinner, 
and over their coffee ; and at nine tea was served. 

“What hour do 3’ou intend going to Madeleine’s ? ” 
asked Mabel. 

“ An3" hour you like,” returned the Baroness. “I 
prefer going late ; one has a better chance of being 
noticed. If 3’ou go in with the crowd, 3’ou are lost in 
the crowd.” 

This was just what Mabel hoped to be. 

“Will 3’ou go a little earlier to-night, on 1113^ ac- 
count?” she asked. “ I am obliged to be up earl3', so 
I don’t like to sit np veiy late.” 

“ Of course, dear. Will ten o’clock be early 
enough ? ” 

“Half-past nine, please,” coaxed Mabel. 

“Veiy well, — let it be half-past nine.” 

Mabel got up and pulled the bell. 

“ Pardon, mon ange, mere! ! Order the carriage for 
half-past nine,” she said to the servant who answered 
the summons. 

The two friends w'ere soon whirling along in the warm 
carriage, eveiy breath of air shut out by the well-fitting 
glasses, their feet resting on the soft rug, under which 
was a case of hot water. Olga drew her ermine cloak 
round her shivering, and declared the cold to be some- 
thing awful. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


269 


“ Madeleine ought to be obliged to us for our devoue- 
said she, wrapping the rich fur closer to her; 
“ but she need not thank me to-night. I should not 
have stirred out but for 3^011, rnoyi petit angeP 

The horses pranced into Madame de Chavigny’s 
cocAerey-and the ladies were greeted by a hospitable 
glow on entering the hall. It was a brilliant scene, — 
more so far than Mabel had anticipated. She had 
seen too much of the great world’s gayeties to find any- 
thing new in this particular one ; but she had never 
before felt so frightened on entering a drawing-room. 

Eveiy ej’e was fixed on her the moment she appeared. 
Madame de Chavign3" came forward, smiling a welcome. 
It was such a charming surprise ! and so sweet of Mabel 
to come ! There were enough of jeunes gens to get up 
a dance. How fortunate it w'as ! 

Dance ! Mabel felt inclined to take to her heels and 
run. 

“ Bon jour, mon ami ! ” said Olga, nodding familiarly 
to a tall, dark gentleman who stood chatting with two 
militarj’ men near the door of the second salon. 

The dark gentlemen came forward with einpressement. 

“ Shall I take yon to a seat, or will 3’ou take a turn 
in the rooms first?” he inquired, offering her his arm. 

Merei ; I ’ll look about me a little.” She turned 
unceremoniously from the proffered arm, and putting 
up a miniature eve-glass, scanned the salons from end 
to end, and then slowl}" sauntered on to a small boudoir 
off the large salon. 

Mabel, taking advantage of Madeleine’s being called 
off to do honor to a new-comer, hastened after her 
chaperone. 

‘‘ Wly^did 3'ou leave me in the hands of the enem}^?” 
she said, laughing, and sat down beside Olga. 

“Nonsense!” answered the Baroness pettishly; 
“3’ou didn’t expect me to hold 3’ou by the hand all 
night I ” 

“Oh, no; I onl3’ want to sta3’ under 3’our wing. 
I feel strange among all those people that I don’t 
know.” 


270 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


' “You’ll know them b}' and by. Madeleine will in- 
troduce 3’ou, and get 3'ou plent}^ of partners.” 

“ I slia’n’t want partners ; I don’t intend to dance.” 

“ What do you intend to do? Mope in here till mid- 
night ?”'Said Olga querulously. “You might as well 
have sta3’ed at home.” 

“ Yes ; I think I should have done better,” returned 
Mabel coldly. 

Madame de Valtimyr made no answer, but coquetted 
with her fan. 

“ Do you see that dark .young man talking to General 
F ?” she asked abriipth*. 

“ Yes, — the one you spoke to.” 

“ What do 3'ou think of him ?” 

“I think him very handsome.” 

“ So did I once upon a time.” 

Olga rattled her fan till the mother-of-pearl threat- 
ened to break in her fingers. 

“Who is he?” inquired Mabel, looking at the 
stranger. 


“ Le Baron de Valtimyr ! ” 

“Olga!” 

Olga gave the same low laugh that had grated on 
Mabel’s ear once before that evening. 

General F must have noticed the pair in the 

boudoir, and said something that caused his companion 
to turn round and look at them. 

Monsieur de Valrimyr came towards his wife. “ My 
dear Olga, you will have to answer for some catastrophe, 
if 3’ou keep Mademoiselle all to 3’ourself,” he said, look- 
ing down at his young wife, who looked up at him 
defiantly. 

“I’m not keeping her; she followed me. Take her 
under 3’our charge, and see if you can make her amena- 
ble to reason. I can’t.” 

“ Give me a passport by introducing me,” said her 
husband. 

“ Oh ! I forgot. Baron de Valtimyr, Miss Stanhope. 
Now 3’ou are en regie., and can make la cour to her. 
Go, 7 na petite ; you will find him a more amusing chap- 




MABEL STANHOPE. 


271 


eron than his wife.” Mabel had nothing for it but to 
accept the Baron’s arm. She was growing painfully 
nervous, and wished with all her heart she had not been 
tempted to come. 

‘‘As your oldest acquaintance here, I claim 3’our 
hand for the next dance,” said Monsieur de Valtimyr. 

“ I would very much rather not dance,” replied Mabel, 
raising her e^^es with an imploring glance. 

The Baron felt her hand tremble on his arm. He 
thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his 
life as that beseeching, upturned face. “Then 3’on 
shall not dance. Come and sit down in the next room.” 
And he led her through the crowd into the first salo 7 i^ 
where Madame de Chavigny was holding her court near 
the door, greeting her guests as they entered. 

He steered his loveW charge to a couch in one of 
the windows. “Do you always dislike dancing?” he 
asked, sitting down beside her. 

“ No,” answered Mabel truthfully. 

“Then it depends on 3’our partner? What an un- 
lucky didble I am ! ” 

Monsieur de Valtimyr heaved a sigh with such a 
serious face that Mabel could not but laugh. “ It does 
not the least depend on my partner ; I should not dance 
to-night if Louis Quatorze himself were here and asked 
me,” she said. 

“ Wh}' not, Mademoiselle? ” 

“ If you care to know, Olga will tell .you why.” 

“You and m}^ wife have been at school together, have 
you not ? ” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Olga has often spoken to me about you. Have 3^ou 
been long in Paris, Mademoiselle?” 

“ No, Monsieur. Has Olga been speaking to j^ou 
lately about me?” 

“ Not ver^’ lately. She does not trouble me much 
with her confidences of late,” replied Monsieur de Valti- 
m.yr wdth a peculiar smile. 

Mabel was beginning to dislike him. 

Madame de Chavignj^ came into the grand salon ^ 


272 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


where the dancing was going on. She glanced round 
the room in search of Olga and \iqy protegee. 

Olga was still in the boudoir ; not alone now, but sur- 
rounded b}^ a crowd of admirers, — adorateurs, as they 
dubbed themselves. 

“Messieurs! Messieurs!” cried Madame de Cha- 
vign}^ shaking her fan at the queen and her courtiers, 
“ I must protest against this monopoly.” 

“ Who is the monopolist — I, or ces messieurs? ” de- 
manded Olga, laughing. 

“ Mechante ! ” and Madame de Chavigny kissed her 
friend’s forehead. “ What have 3^ou done with our new 
beauty ? ” 

“ Monsieur de Yaltim}’!’ has carried her off,” replied 
Olga careless]3\ '•'-Apropos., mignonne., I have a word 
to say to 3"ou.” And putting her arm through Made- 
leine’s, she led her back to the drawing-room. 

“ Cette pauvre Mabel ! I promised her I ’d speak to 
3^011 about her,” began the protectress. “ Fanc3’ ! she 
has turned Catholic, and had to turn out of her home 
in consequence ; and now she wants to give lessons.” 

“ Bon Dieii ! ” exclaimed Madeleine, fanning herself ; 
“ mais elle est folle ! ” 

“ Well, I think so. But you know she was alwa3’s 
a little exalte e?’ 

“ And what does she want to teach?” 

“ Painting.” 

“ Then I can’t be of the least use to her. If it had 
been singing, I might have got up a soiree musicals., 
and had some good judges to hear her ; but painting — 
ma chere, what can one do ? ” 

“ She copies at the Louvre. Suppose 3^ou got up a 
lottery for one of her pictures ? ” suggested Olga. 

“ A lotteiy ! Dieu vous pardonne ! It would be the 
ruin of m3^ salon. I do believe it is the onl3^ one in 
Paris where there is never a lotteiy-ticket to be seen. 

The Due de X was complimenting me on it this 

morning, and sa3'ing it was one reason wly'^ m3’ salon 
was so popular. People were never bored for charit3^ 
A lotteiy ! Cher ange., 3’ou would not be so cruel ! ” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


273 


“ Pardon, pardon, cherie. It was veiy thoughtless of 
me to propose it ; but I am so etourdie.'’ 

“Si etoiirdie et si adorablement bonne,” said Ma- 
dame de Chavigii}’, pressing Olga’s arm. “We will 
talk over what can be done for this poor Mabel ; mais 
pour la lotterie, chut ! ” 

“ You don’t seem to be amusing yourself much,” ob- 
served Olga, coming up to where Mabel wms seated be- 
side her husband. “ Shall we come awa}’, Mabel?” 

“Oh, yes! — if you don’t mind leaving so soon.” 
And Mabel rose with alacrit}'. 

“Can 3’ou give me a lift home, Olga?” inquired 
Monsieur de Valtim}’!’, as he escorted them to the 
cloakroom. 

“It’s the she answered shortl}’. “I 'can 

send it back for you if you wish.” 

“ Thank you ; my own will be here a little later.” 

He saw' his wife into her carriage, and returned to the 
drawing-room. 

“ I si)oke to Madeleine, dear,” said Olga, when they' 
were alone, “ and she promised to do anything she 
could for 3'ou. I suggested a lottery', but that is so 
overdone, she said ; however, you may rely on Made- 
leine’s doing something. She is very popular, and 
ain'thing she takes up is sure to succeed.” 

The friends embraced, and parted. 

. “ Was it worth the sacrifice? ” asked Mabel, as she 
undressed and lay down, tired and excited after the 
evening’s gayety. 

She little guessed how utterly fruitless the sacrifice 
had been. 


18 


274 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

EXT to Mabel herself, and almost as warm!}', 



Miss Jones rejoiced at the brightening prospect 
held out by Monsieur de Volque’s patronage ; it was 
just the stepping-stone Mabel wanted, — some one to 
hold out an encouraging hand and set her little bark 
afloat. “ But -who is this Monsieur de Volque, my 
dear?” she inquired, when Mabel had given a full, 
true, and particular account of her two meetings with 
the amateur sculptor. 

“He is a gentleman, — that’s all I know about 
him,” was the candid and satisfied repl}^ 

“Well, 3’'ou ought to be a competent judge on that 
point,” observed Miss Jones ; “ but it is hard to trust 
those foreigners, — the}" are so slippeiT and deceitful.” 

“Slippery and deceitful! how prejudiced of a'ou. 
Miss Jones! It’s not like 3"ou ; onl}^ 3"ou are unjust 
whenever a Frenchman is in question.” 

“Mr. Grinaldi said he knew him?” inquired Miss 
Jones, making no attempt to defend herself from this 
accusation. 

“Oh, 3"es ; he was delighted when I told him w^hat 
Monsieur de Volque had said of m3’ picture, and in 
his usual wa}^ grumbled out some advice about not 
getting m3’ head turned, and so forth.” 

“ You have too much common-sense, I hope, to be 
in any danger on that score,” remarked Miss Jones. 

The fortnight passed quickly, and our heroine 
awaited in some anxiet}’ the visit of inspection she had 
authorized. 

“I wash I had asked him to wait another week,” 
she said to herself, surve3’ing her canvas in discontent ; 
“it’s a horrid daub for an}’ one to look at now. He 
will be disgusted wdth it.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


275 


The retiring-bell sounded through the galleiy, and 
the artists, bustling brushes and paints into their 
boxes, rose simultaneously to leave. Mabel made her 
preparations more leisurely. Her eye unconsciously 
kept wandering in the direction of the curtained door 
near her easel ; but the last tinkle of the bell died 
away, and the last straggler had departed, and no 
hand stirred the velvet portiere. 

“ So much the better ; if he comes to-morrow, I shall 
be a little bit more advanced,” thought Mabel ; and she 
followed the crowd downstairs. 

“ Oh dear ! What am I to do? ” 

This exclamation was called forth by the sight of 
the weather without. Mabel stood disconsolate, and 
wondered how she was to get home in the pouring rain 
that had already turned the vast court into a lake. 

“What am I to do?” she repeated aloud, as she 
stood and watched the rain pelting furioush' on the 
pavement. As she spoke, a handsomel}" appointed 
brougham drove up to the door, and a gentleman jumped 
out. 

“ Ah, I perceive I am too late ! ” he cried, catching 
sight of Mabel. 

“Yes, fortunately,” she replied; “I should hardl}^ 
have had the courage to show you my barbouillage 
to-day.” 

“Indeed!” He smiled. “Well, I hope you will 
have courage to let it be seen to-morrow. Meantime, 
how do you purpose getting home. Mademoiselle?” 

“I was just asking m3\self that. It does not look as 
if it were going to clear up ; ” and she glanced at the 
dark sk}" overhead. 

“ No ; and I fear jmu will have difficulty in finding 
a cab.” He looked up at the clouds, as if trying to 
see a way out of the difficulty. Then, turning to her, — 

“Will you allow me the honor of conveying you 
home. Mademoiselle?” he said. 

“ You are very kind, but — I could not give you so 
much trouble,” she answered hesitatingly; “it would 
be taking you very much out of }’our way.” 


276 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“I have no particular way at present. I came to 
view your work and then return home. You had better 
allow me to take you to the Rue St. Louis.” 

Tliere was a mixture of persuasion and authorit}’ in 
his manner that Mabel found it difficult to resist. It 
seemed ungracious to refuse, and foolish as well. She 
might get her death, waiting there for the next hour or 
more in the cold ; in aii}’^ case, her feet M^ould get 
drenched walking home through that sea of rain. 

Monsieur de Volqne probably followed her thoughts, 
and saw the conclusion the}- must lead to ; for he 
returned to his carriage, took the coachman’s volu- 
minous umbrella, held it over Mabel’s head, and pre- 
sented' his arm to escort her to the brougham. 

“ Rue St. Louis, 15 ,” he called out to the coachman, 
and closed the portiere on himself and Mabel. 

“Paris is disgracing itself this winter,” he observed, 
as they drove out into the already deserted street, that 
was flooded to the trottoir ; “ this weather is worthy of 
la brunieuse Albion^ is it not?” 

“ Has poor Albion such a bad name? ” asked Mabel, 
smiling. 

“Only so far as her climate is concerned,” replied 
Monsieur de Volque ; “every nation, like ever}- man, 
has its cote faible. England’s weak point is her cli- 
mate ; but hers is an infirmity that her sons and 
daughters may own without blushing.” 

“ I have seldom heard a Frenchman sj^eak admir- 
ingly of my countrymen,” observed Mabel ; “I wonder 
why 3-0U generally dislike us so.” 

“Do we generally dislike 3^011? I was not aware of 
it, and I am inclined to think you calumniate us. 
Mademoiselle. Those who speak badly of England are 
either des ignorants, who do not know her, or des 
envieux^ who are jealous of her.” 

“ Have 3-0U ever been in England, Monsieur? 

“Yes, frequently; and if I ever took a prejudice 
there, I certainly never brought it back/’ 

He went on chatting pleasantly about la pluie et le 
beau temps ^ till the brougham stopped at Mabel’s door. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


277 


“Alread}'?” exclaimed Monsieur de Volque. He 
stepped out of the carriage, and in so doing his hat 
came in violent contact with a huge umbrella. 

‘‘Oh, pardong, Moshu ! ” cried the aggressor, mov- 
ing aside and looking at the gentleman. 

“ Oh, dear Miss Jones, is it 3’ou? I am so glad! 
Pra>’ let me introduce you to my friendj” said Mabel, 
turning to Monsieur de Volque." 

The introduction took place, and the gentleman ex- 
pressed his delight at making the acquaintance of Miss 
Jones. 

It was not veiT hospitable to keep them both stand- 
ing in the doorwa}^, Mabel thought, and she wanted 
Miss Jones to know Monsieur de Volqne. 

“ I would ask you to come upstairs for a moment, if 
I were not ashamed of having taken up so much of 
your time already*. Monsieur/’ said the young girl 
* timidl3\ 

“My time could not have been better emploj^ed. 
Mademoiselle.” He opened the coachman’s umbrella 
again, and accompanied her across the courtj’ard. 
When they reached the Pavilion, he stood back to let 
Miss Jones pass, took the alpaca monster out of her 
hand, and followed the two ladies upstairs. 

As Mabel turned the key in the door, she remem- 
bered there was no fire lighted. It was cold and dis- 
mal outside, but that frozen little salon with its empty 
grate would be ten times w'orse. She was vexed with 
herself for having brought Monsieur de Volque up ; but 
it was done now, and she must only make the best of 
it. This was easy enough with the polished man of the 
world, who detected her embarrassment almost as soon 
as she was conscious of it herself. He walked straight 
to the window, as if it were the only point of interest 
in the room, examined the sk}', and got into conversa- 
tion with Miss Jones, who was soon quite at home with 
him. Mabel forgot all about the empt}* fireplace, and 
succeeded in persuading herself that Monsieur de Volque 
had not noticed it. 

Presentl}^ Miss Jones looked at her watch. “ I 


278 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


must be off, my darling,” she said. “ I should not 
have come to-day, but that I was uneasy lest you 
should have taken cold 3^esterda3\” 

“ You can’t possibly go back in that rain,” remon- 
strated Mabel; “you will get drenched, and then I 
shall have to go and inquire about 3*011 to-morrow, and 
probabl3* get caught in the rain again.” 

“ Ma3* I solve the difficulty by taking 3*our friend 
home?” inquired Monsieur de Volque, rising. “You 
need have no scruples about taking up 1113" time, 
Madame,” he added to Miss Jones ; “I have nothing 
to do with it till seven o’clock, so it is perfectl3* at 3*our 
disposal.” 

“ How very kind 3*011 are ! ” said Mabel, holding out 
her hand to him impulsiveh* ; “ that will save me from 
anxiety, and Miss Jones from a drenching.” 

Miss Jones made no protestations. She was veiy 
much obliged to Monsieur de Volque ; but after all, he 
was onl3" doing what ary' gentleman, under the circum- 
stances, might have been expected to do. 

She kissed Mabel, and left the pavilion in compan3^ 
with Monsieur de Volque. 

“You are a very old friend of Miss Stanhope?” 
observed the latter, as soon as they were alone in the 
brougham. 

“ She thinks so,” replied Miss Jones ; “at her age, 
a friendship of three or four years is alread3* old.” 

Little by little, her companion drew out the whole 
history of the beautiful girl who had so singularly 
excited his interest. Told as it was with earnest sim- 
plicit3', the stoiy was a grand and a touching one. 

“What a noble child she is!” exclaimed Monsieur 
de Volque, when Miss Jones had ended her tale. 

“ Yes ; and she is so unconscious of it! ” said Miss 
Jones. “ The idea she has done aiy'thing heroic, or 
out of the common line of dut3’, has never, I am sure, 
crossed her mind.” 

“What a tyrant her father must be!” broke out 
Monsieur de Volque, after a moment’s reflection. 

“ You do him wrong,” replied Miss Jones warml3^ 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


279 


“Sir John Stanhope is a good and high-minded man, 
and loves his daughter tenderly'.” 

“ Does paternal love often develop itself in this 
peculiar way with English fathers?” demanded her 
companion sarcastically. 

“ Few have the courage to do as he is doing,” 
replied Miss Jones. “Few fathers would have the 
strength to sacrifice their own happiness to secure the 
eternal w'elfare of their children.” 

Monsieur de Volque bent his quick, keen glance on 
I Miss Jones. “ And does this tender-hearted father 
hope to win back his erring child by the gentle persua- 
sion of banishment and poverty ? ” he asked derisivel3\ 

“ He does what he believes to be his duky, and leaves 
the rest to Providence.” 

“ Providence I Starvation and despair may do the 
" work as well. Grand Dieu! What hideous sophistiy I 
■ How if this beautiful child should be shipwrecked in 
the storm? Will this most Christian father hand over 
the responsibility to Providence ; and will Providence 
accept it, think you ? ” 

There was a want of reverence in his tone that 
shocked Miss Jones. “There is no fear of shipwreck 
when God stands b}' us at the helm. Even when Pie 
sleeps below, there is safety in His presence,” she said, 
in a voice full of solemnity. It never occurred to this 
r simple-minded Christian that words which to her were 
sacred as their source, might be matter of scoffing to 
the man of the world beside her. 

- Perhaps some faint echo of her simple faith resounded 
! in his soul, and checked the sneer that would have met 
i the words, had the^' been spoken bv’ a fellow-man ; at 
j anj^ rate, Monsieur de Volque made no sign of disre- 
spect. It might be that he envied Miss Jones her calm 
1 trust in that unknown Providence whose existence he 
' neither quite denied nor quite accepted. It was a grand 
thing to struggle with the grim realities of life, sorrow, 
and poverty, and 3’et possess one’s soul, looking steadity 
: to the eternal and the unseen. Such a struggle as this 
i was wntten in eveiy line of Miss Jones’s face ; Monsieur 


280 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


de Volqiie read it, and looked upon the wan woman 
beside him with a touch of reverence in his gaze. 

“ I wish I could prove raj’ respectful admiration for 
YOur 3'oung friend, and ni}’ s^unpatlu' for her position, 
by something better than mere words,” he said pre- 
senth’ ; “but the world is censorious, and my^ friend- 
ship might rather hurt than serve her. Could y^ou not 
give Miss Stanhope the protection of your presence, by 
coming to live in the same house with her, Madame?” 

“Just at present it is not possible,” replied Miss 
Jones ; “ but I hope soon to be able to leave n)y lodg- 
ing in the Rue Montmartre and get a room in the house 
with her. It will be a great comfort to me, and, as you 
say% a great protection to her.” Monsieur de Volque 
seemed genuinely glad to hear this. Miss Jones made 
up her mind that she thoroughly liked him. Mabel 
was right: he w^as a gentleman. 


5 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


281 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


FEW da3's later Mabel received a visit from Mon- 



sieur Grosjean. It was an iiniisnal thing now, 
for since her dismissal of Madame Grosjean’s services, 
neither husband nor wife had crossed her threshold. 

Monsieur Grosjean doffed his skull-cap, and drawing 
his hand across his mouth, apologized for the iibert}' he 
took in troubling Mademoiselle ; but the fact was, he 
had something to propose to her. Mabel’s pulse stood 
still. Was he going to turn her out for a better loca- 
taire ? What could that ‘ ‘ something ” be that could 
benefit her at his hands? 

It came out, and seemed plausible enough. An old 
tenant wanted the third floor with a twelve months’ 
lease ; he only required- one bedroom, and would not 
give beyond a hundred francs a month. Monsieur Gros- 
jean proposed to Miss Stanhope that she should give up 
her apartment to the ancien locataire., and come down 
to the first floor, which had been vacant for the last 
fortnight. 

“•But I cannot afford to pay two hundred francs a 
month,” replied Mabel. It had been matter of anxious 
consideration to her, whether she could go on paying 
one hundred francs a month, while her aflairs continued 
in so precarious a state. 

“ Of course not. Mademoiselle, and I don’t want 3'ou 
to pay two hundred francs a month. You shall have 
the premier at the same price 3'ou pa3' for the troi- 
sieme;” 

“But why not make the concession to this gentle- 
man who is going to take it for twelve months ? ” 

“ I could not leave it at that price for a year,” replied 
the landlord. 


282 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


“ Then 3’ou onl}' intend to leave me in it till 3’ou find 
a better tenant, and then you will turn me out?” 

“ Dieu garde I Mademoiselle,” protested Monsieur 
Grosjean, indignantly. I want to secure a good ten- 
ant for twelve months, by inconveniencing Mademoiselle. 
I am not likel}' to let the premier for more than three 
months now, up to the month of Ma}’. Will Mademoi- 
selle take it till then at a hundred francs ? ” 

Three months ! It was a long time to bind herself, 
uncertain as she was about the resources of the future. 
Still, where was she to find anything cheaper than her 
present lodging? Miss Jones lived in one room; it 
might happen that Mabel would have to do so too. 

“I do not like to engage myself for three months,” 
she said. “I cannot say what ma}^ occur to alter m}^ 
plans. Will you let me have the first floor on the terms 
you propose, oulj’ b}^ the month? ” 

“ Parfaitement, Mademoiselle; I merel}" mentioned 
three months to show Mademoiselle that she need not 
fear being turned out. If Mademoiselle wishes to 
remain on through the summer, she can have it 
at the same price. We never get more in the dead 
season.” 

“ When does this gentleman wish to come in?” in- 
quired Mabel, without answering the latter part of the 
concierge' s speech. 

“ As soon as Mademoiselle can let him. Will it in- 
convenience her to demenager to-morrow ? ” 

‘\Not the least ; m3' packing won’t take long ; I shall 
set about it at once.” 

And she did so, the moment Monsieur Grosjean left 
her. 

The apartment au 'premier was a little larger than 
the one au troisieme, and much better' furnished. The 
drawing-room was carpeted all over, and every chink 
and crevice well stopped with bourrelets^ so as to keep 
out the draughts. This was, perhaps, the pleasantest 
part of the change. Mabel had been nearly blown up 
the chimne3' of her little salon 113' the draughts that 
whistled through the doors and windows. The idea of 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


283 


getting Miss Jones to come and take up her abode in 
the extra bedroom suggested itself to her the moment 
she took possession of the apartment. Miss Jones could 
have no possible objection to urge, and it would be such 
a comfort to both ! 

“ What a surprise it will be to her ! ” thought Mabel, 
as she arranged the books and knick-knacks about the 
salon. It had a pretty green carpet and green reps 
curtains, in place of the flimsy white muslin ones of an 
troisieme. By way of inaugurating her new installa- 
tion, she lighted a fire, and got read}’ the tea-things for 
Miss Jones’s visit. It was Friday, and Miss Jones 
generally came in for an hour before dinner on that day. 

Mabel was not disappointed. At five o’clock the bell 
rang, and Miss Jones made her appearance. 

She heard the story of the cUraenagernent^ and con- 
gratulated Mabel heartily on the fortunate cliance which 
had enabled her to come down to the comfortable first 
floor. 

“And I’ve got such a pretty room for 3’ou, Miss 
Jones ! ” pursued Mabel, taking her friend into the 
small bedroom off' the salon. “ Now I’ll have no argu- 
ment or opposition ; if you don’t come we ’ll quarrel 
forever and ever ! ” 

“ Well, you need not put a pistol to m3’ throat till I 
refuse to 3’ield to fair means,” replied Miss Jones, kiss- 
ing the fair face, that was flushed with excitement. 

“ Oh, how nice! and I sha’n’t be alone any more! 
Do you know. Miss Jones, I was growing so nervous 
that I could n’t sleep at night ! ” 

“ M}’ poor darling! You must make up for it now 
b}’ sleeping like a little dormouse ; and I promise to 
fight the robbers, if an}’ should make bold to trouble 
us.” 

“ Then y’ou ’ll come at once, — not to-night, 3’ou would 
not have time to get 3’our things read}’ ; but to-morrow, 
— early, mind,” urged Mabel. 

“ Dearest, to-morrow it would be impossible. I 
must let my pupils know of my change, and then my 
landlady will expect a few days’ notice. It would not 


284 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


be civil to run off at a moment’s warning ; besides, I 
am in her debt.” 

“How much?” asked the 3’oung lad}’ with blunt 
indiscretion. 

“Oh, not to a large amount. However, all things 
considered, I don’t think I can come before Monday.” 

After a little more grumbling on Mabel’s side, and 
expostulation on Miss Jones’s, it was agreed that the 
governess should make her entry on Monday. Miss 
Jones was looking wretchedly. She w’as worn to a 
shadow, and so weak that the exertion of walking up 
one flight of stairs left her panting and exhausted for 
several minutes. Mabel had noticed her growing thin- 
ness ; but there were other and more alarming symptoms 
which escaped her inexperienced eye. She believed 
Miss Jones to be suffering from over-walking and over- 
fatigue. It had not struck her that the teacher might 
have to put up with rations that would have brought 
indignant denunciation against the workhouse authori- 
ties, had the3”ad ministered the like to ai\y pauper under 
their roof. Her hands were growing eripi)led with rheu- 
matism, so that the needlework necessary to keep in 
order her scanty wardrobe became exquisite torture to 
the poor stiff fingers. It happened not un frequently 
that she, after her hard day’s toil, w’as obliged to spend 
the greater part of the night pl3’ing her needle on a 
well-patched gown, taking an hour to cobble up a hole 
that she would have despatciied in ten minutes had her 
hands been free from pain. Want of sleep was no trifl- 
ing addition to her man}’ other wants ; but Miss Jones 
was getting used to this, and fancied she might eventu- 
ally do with half her former quantum, and be none the 
worse for it. 

On the Monday morning Mabel busied herself about 
the apartment, arranging everything in her friend’s room 
a dozen times OA^er. Miss Jones had promised to come 
early. Noon came and went, but gave no sign of her. 
At two o’clock Mabel began to grow impatient. She 
sat dowui to her work, but at eveiy stir in the court3’ard 
hastened to the window. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


285 


“ It will be ver3^ naught}^ of her to disappoint me,” she 
said to herself, as the clock struck three, and there was 
no sign of the governess. Then it occurred to her that 
Miss Jones might be ill. 

Four o’clock, and still no one appeared. 

Mabel could bear it no longer ; she threw on her 
things, and set off to see what the dela}’ meant. 

Miss Jones’s concierge^ in answer to Mabel’s inquiry', 
said she had not seen Alees go out ; she was probably 
chez elle, au cinquierne, au fond de la cour. 

Mabel climbed up to the fifth stoiy, by a dark stair- 
case that creaked under her light foot as if she had 
been a dragoon in heavy marching order. 

A card pasted on a door to the left announced that 
Miss Jones was supposed to be within. 

Mabel knocked, and a weak voice called out, ’“Entrez ! ” 

She opened the door, and stood for a moment on the 
threshold, as if to convince herself that the person who 
answered could indeed be Miss Jones. Her thoughts 
went back to another maasarde where she had seen the 
same figure panting with pain an<l fever, on a bed not 
much better than the one before her. Not much, but 
still better, for there the mattress w^as supported bv an 
iron bedstead, while here it was stretched upon the bare 
floor. Miss Jones made a faint effort to raise herself 
on her elbow. “ My darling ! you have been expecting 
me. I had no one to send, or I should have let 3*ou 
know that I could not come to-day.” 

Mabel twined her arms round the sick woman, and 
sobbed on her neck. 

“ M3’ child, don’t fret yourself about it. I’m not so 
bad — onl3’ a little tired — Mabel, my darling — ” She 
spoke in gasps, as if the exertion were painful and 
fatigued her. 

Mabel made a strong effort to calm her own agita- 
tion, and sat down beside Miss Jones on the mattress. 
She asked no questions, — how long the governess had 
been living in this miserable place, or what straits of 
povert3’ had hunted her into such a den. The fact was 
before her, and she had to deal with it in the present. 


286 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“I shall get Monsieur Grosjean to come and carry 
3'ou down into the cab, and then I shall be a])le to take 
care of 3'Ou at home,” she said, holding Miss Jones’s hot 
hand. 

“ To-morrow, dearest, I may be well enough, but to- 
da}" I should be afraid to move ; I — ” 

“You have taken cold,” said Mabel, as Miss Jones 
was cut short by a racking cough. 

“ I fear so ; but please God it will not signif}^ And 
how does mv child get on in her new house?” She 
smiled sweetly as she asked the question. 

The smile went to Mabel’s heart, blow pure and un- 
selfish was Miss Jones’s love for her ! She could turn so 
naturall}^ from her own deep sufferings to think of her 
comfort and happiness. 

“ I shall get on verv well when I have 3’ou safe in it,” 
Mabel answered. “You must not keep me long wait- 
ing, because I intend to be as uncomfortable and as 
miserable as I can make myself till 3’ou come.” 

There was another short lit of coughing as Miss Jones 
tried to speak. 

“ What are you taking? Have you any medicine, or 
a drink of an3^ sort?” inquired Mabel, casting her e3n 
round the wretched place. 

There was no appearance of an3'thing drinkable or 
eatable ; there was not a table to lay anything down 
upon, except Miss Jones’s old trunk, — the same she had 
at Belle-Vue, onl3" more worn and rust3’ now. The sick 
woman pointed to a corner of the room. The roof sloped 
down so rapidly at that side that Mabel was obliged to 
go on her knees to reach to a broken can with some water, 
and a delft mug. Pouring out some of the water, she 
held it to Miss Jones’s lips. 

“What am I to do?” thought Mabel. “I cannot 
leave her here alone, and she is not fit to be moved 
with this fever and hea\w cold on her.” 

“ My darling, you must not stay here perishing your- 
self,” said Miss Jones; “ 3nu will fall ill, and then I 
shall have no one to nurse me. Go home, and to-mor- 
row, please God, I shall be better.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


287 


“Are you quite sure you could not venture to be 
moved to-da}’?” inquired Mabel anxioiisl}^ 

“ Yes, my darling, quite sure ; it would shake me too 
much, and my rheinnatism is rather unmanageable. It 
is raining, too, and the damp might increase my cold, 
no matter how well 3^011' wrapped me up.” 

“ I can’t let 3^011 pass the night b3’ 3’ourself,” said Ma- 
:.bel resolutely. 

Miss Jones smiled. It would not be the first night 
she had passed alone in suffering and illness. “ Dear 
child, you fanc3^ me much worse than I am,” she an- 
swered fondly. “I shall have no need of any one 
during the night, and if I should, I have only to knock 
at the wall, and the best old soul in Paris will come in 
to help me.” 

“ And 3^ou promise me that if 3^011 feel worse, or if 
3"ou want anything, 3’ou wdll knock for her ? ” demanded 
Mabel, somewhat reassured. 

“ Yes, I promise you.” 

“ But I must get you something to take. What would 
be good for you, 1 wonder? Some barle3’-water wdth a 
little lemon-juice? Dowd3' used to make it for me when 
I had a cough.” 

“ I don’t think I should like it, dear.” 

Miss Jones thought she w^ould not like the trouble it 
would give Mabel to light a fire and prepare it for her. 

“ Would 3'ou like some oranges?” 

“ Yes ; 1 think an orange w'ould refresh me.” 

Mabel started up to go for them. 

“ Don’t get anything else, darling. I could not eat, 
and I should have to take it away with me to-morrow ; 
if I am well enough to move,” she added cautiousl3^ 

“You must be well enough!” said Mabel, shaking 
her head at her, as she closed the door and disap- 
peared. 

In a veiy short time she was back again with a bag 
full of oranges, and a package of sugar. 

Miss Jones watched her peeling off the skin, and 
squeezing the juicy pulp into the delft mug. What a 
singular fatality seemed to link her to this sweet girl 1 


.288 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


It was her destiiw to be dependent on Mabel when she 
was ill and helpless. 

“ This is not enough for the night,” observed Mabel, 
as she filled up the mug with water. “ Is there nothing 
else that could hold some ? ” 

“ I sha’n’t drink more, darling. Peel me another 
orange, and III suck it when I feel thirst}'.” 

Mabel peeled the orange, and laid it close at 
hand. 

“Good-by, my child; God bless 3’ou ! ” said the 
governess, tenderly. 

Mabel kissed her, and hurried awa}- , without trusting 
herself to speak. She walked quickly home, with a 
vague misgiving at her heart. Miss Jones said it was 
a cold, and Mabel tried to believe it was nothing worse. 
But there was a light in Miss Jones’s ej'e, a hollow tone 
in her voice, that foreboded something more. 

“ She was much worse at Belle-Vue,” argued Mabel, 
as she recollected the acute pain and wasting fever that 
had made such fearful havoc in the half-starved frame 
three 3^ears ago. And so far Mabel was right ; the first 
illness was more serious ; but the suflferer was stronger, 
and better able to bear it. There was no strength left 
now, except the strength of endurance. 

The pretty salon looked forlorn as Mabel returned to 
it alone. The day passed wearily. Next morning the 
rain fell in torrents. Monsieur Grosjean declared there 
was no possibility of getting a cab till after eleven o’clock. 
He had his iUjehie)\ and then stood at the street door 
till 2, fiacre passed. He put his tenant into it, and got 
up himself beside the coachman. 

“ What a pity the day is so wet ! ” thought Mabel, as 
they drove along. 

There was hardly a soul to be seen in the streets. As 
the}^ approached Montmartre, a hearse came slowly 
winding its wa}" towards the cemqtery. Is there any- 
thing more dismal than a funeral on a wet day? The 
few friends who accompanied the dead had not the cour- 
age to pay the last poor tribute of following on foot, but 
sat huddled together in a cab. Alongside this hearse 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


289 


came a hospital bed, carried b}^ two men. They tramped 
on heavih', swinging their burden from side to side. 

“Thank God, I can take her home, and not let her 
be carried, like that poor sufferer, to the hospital,” 
thought Mabel. 

The cab stopped at Miss Jones’s door. Mabel desired 
Monsieur Grosjean to follow her, and walked on quickly 
without stopping at the lodge. They mounted the dark 
staircase, Monsieur Grosjean commenting on the conduct 
of a landlord and a concierge who kept their stairs in 
such a state. On arriving at the top, Mabel was startled 
to see the door open. 

The room was empty. Miss Jones was gone ! The 
black box was there, as she had left it yesterdaj^ ; the 
mattress, with its thin, brown blanket, lay empty on 
the ground, the bits of orange-peel strewn beside it. A 
horrible suspicion darted across Mabel’s mind. Without 
speaking to Grosjean, who stared in blank wonder al- 
ternately at the mattress and at Mabel, she rushed fran- 
tically down the stairs, and into the porter’s lodge. 

“ Miss Jones?” she said in a choking voice. 

“ Oh, la pauvre Mees ! ” replied the woman, “ she is 
gone ! ” 

“When? where?” 

' “ To the Hotel-Dieu. The}- have just been to fetch 
her ; pauvre Mees ! ” 

Mabel leaned against the wall to prevent herself from 
falling. 

The concierge thought she was going to faint, and ran 
for a glass of water. 

“Thank you,” said the poor child, putting it gently 
from her, “ I am not ill. Who sent Miss Jones to the 
hospital ? ” 

“She went of her own accord, Mamselle ; I never 
should have sent her away,” replied the woman, touched 
at the sight of her distress. “ La pauvre Mees etait si 
douce ! ” 

“ Did she grow worse during the night, do 3’ou know ? ” 

“Yes, much worse. She knocked for her friend 
in the next room at about six o’clock this morning, and 

19 


290 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


asked her to send to the Hotel-Dieu to have her taken in. 
My bonhoinme went oft* as soon as he was dressed, and 
they promised to send a stretcher in an hour. It did n’t 
come till about ten minutes ago. I wonder Mamselle 
did n’t meet it on the way ? ” 

Mabel knew she had met it, and had passed on beside 
the stretcher, unconscious of what it held. 

“La pauvre Mees said Mamselle would take charge 
of her box,” observed the woman ; “ but if it ’s not con- 
venient to Mamselle, it can stay here.” 

“'Thank yon, I will take it. Monsieur Grix)sjean, wdll 
you bring it down, please?” 

Monsieur Grosjean, finding neither the walls nor the 
empty bed volunteered any information regarding Miss 
Jones, had come down to the lodge, wdiere he had heard 
part of the foregoing conversation. He went back for 
the box. Mabel returned to the cab. The portress, 
anxious to show her sympathy, followed, and helped 
her in. 

“ Will they allow me to see Miss Jones at the Hotel- 
Dieu?” Mabel inquired. 

“ Certainl}', Mamselle. I don’t know what the hours 
are, but they will tell you that at the hospital.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


291 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HAT a touching name it is, — Hotel-Dieii, House 



vv of God, refuge of the poor, the suffering, the 
homeless. And how nobh" the name is honored, and 
its claims upheld b}' tlie rich and happy ones of France ! 
Science lends her aid of head and hand and heart, min- 
istering with entire devotion to the sick brother’s cure, 
while the gentle sisters of St. Vincent, like angels of 
sweet pit}^ wait upon him. 

It mattered little that the new-comer was an alien in 
clime and creed ; she was homeless, and they must take 
her in ; she was suffering, and they must tend her ; she 
was one of their Master’s flock, and their doors were 
open to her, like their hearts. 

When Mabel presented herself at the hospital, she 
was told it was not the hour for admitting visitors ; but 
she could see her friend next day at three o’clock. She 
asked if Miss Jones’s case was considered a dangerous 
one, and the porter, repressing a smile at the simplicity 
of the question, replied that he could give no informa- 
tion on that score. He was not au courant of the 
medical reports. 

Mabel, sick at heart, turned awa}^ How was she to 
get through this weary day ! She had no spirit to go 
to her painting, and yet to go home, and sit alone 
thinking and doing nothing was intolerable. She deter- 
mined to go to the Louvre. 

It was near one when she got there, and with a heavy 
heart sat down before her easel. What was the good 
of working? She seemed to have reached the point 
when exertion was useless and impossible. The battle 
had gone hard enough with her up to the present, God 
knows. Anxiet}" about her mother, whose health had 
been so fragile when she left her, was like a worm 


292 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


gnawing at her heart by day and by night, and w^as 
made more cruel by the feeling that that mother, wdiom 
she loved so devotedl3", had ceased to care about her, 
had cast her off as if she had never known her. At 
times the thought that this separation w^as never to 
end, that her parents would never forgive her, that she 
w'as to remain forever alone in the w^orld, became so 
intolerable that it seemed to Mabel it must end b}’ driv- 
ing her mad. And now', was Miss Jones going to be 
taken from her? Was it possible God w^ould be so 
cruel? What had she done to be punished so unmerci- 
fully? Poor Mabel had come to the end of her courage. 
The tears overflowed, and she sat sobbing softly to her- 
self, wdiile she made a pretence of mixing her colors, 
and trying them on the margin of her canvas. 

The bell rang, and her w^ork w'as no more advanced 
than in the morning. It had come to be a habit now 
with her to loiter after the crowd, in expectation, per- 
haps in hopes, of seeing a tall figure emerge from some 
door in the neighborhood. To-day it was a hope, a 
3'earning hope. She felt so ntterlj' alone. 

While she w'as putting away her brushes, the red 
portih'e was drawn aside, and Monsieur de Volque 
stepped forward. 

“ I have done nothing to-da}',” Mabel said, as he 
came up to her easel. 

“ You are not well ; you have been overworking 3'oar- 
self.” He saw that she had been crying. 

“ I have not been working at all. I have not had 
courage to w^ork,” she said, and her voice nearly broke. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, fixing iiis dark 
gra}' e3'e upon her. 

“ Mv friend has fallen ill.” 

“ Miss Jones? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Is she with 3^011, at the Rue St. Louis? ” 

Mabel colored to her temples. Yet win' should she 
blush? There was nothing to be ashamed of; nothing 
wrong or sinful. “No, Miss Jones is not with me. 
She is at the IIotel-Dieu.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


293 


Monsieur de Volqiie read the meaning of the vivid 
blush, and the proud courage that spoke in her answer. 

“I hope it may be nothing serious,” he observed; 
“ she was not ill when I saw her a few days'ago?” 

“ Oh, she has been ill a long time, and I did not 
know it!” cried Mabel bitterl}' ; “ she was so uncom- 
plaining, so unselfish, I never guessed how ill she was ! ” 

Hastily tying her bonnet-strings, she laid her hand on 
the easel to roll it away. Monsieur de Volque pre- 
vented her. She made no demur, but followed him 
submissively. They walked downstairs together. His 
brougham was at the door. 

“You look very tired,” he said; “let me take 3-011 
home ? ” 

Mabel was ver}^ tired, and it was pleasant to have 
some one notice it in kindness. She said simpl}^, 
“ Merci,” and stepped into the brougham. 

“ Are 3-0U quite alone in Paris? Is there no friend 
except Miss Jones who comes to see 3-ou?” inquired 
Monsieur de Volque, after a short silence. 

“ No one. The Abbe de Rossignol came sometimes 
when he was in town ; but he is gone awa}^ to preach 
the Lent at Tours.” 

“You mentioned Madame de ValtimjT the other 
da3- ; is she not a friend?” 

“We were at school together ; we were friends then 
with a slight emphasis on the theyi that was not lost on 
her companion. 

“And on whose side has the friendship ceased, — - 
on 3'ours, or Madame de Valtimyr’s? ” 

“ Not on mine. Perhaps she would sa}" it has not on 
hers. It may be that I have raised m3- standard of 
friendship too high ; at all events, she does not under- 
stand, me, and I do not understand her.” 

“What is 3-our ideal of a friend. Mademoiselle?” 
inquired her companion, repressing a smile. 

“ Miss Jones,” replied Mabel ; “ my highest ideal of 
friendship is realized in her. She loves me tenderly and 
unselfishly; she would bear my burdens on her own 
shoulder, if it were possible to lift them off mine ; she 


294 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


knows iny faults, and loves me in spite of them. I can 
trust her as I do my own heart. There is no sacrifice 
she would not make for me, and there is no service I 
would not accept at her hands.” 

Monsieur de Volque wondered what the fair dreamer’s 
definition would be of another ideal. Had she realized 
it likewise? He was tempted to ask, but something 
stronger than curiosit}^ prevented him. 

“ Have you read much, Mademoiselle?” he inquired 
abruptly. 

“ About as much as most girls of my age, I suppose,” 
Mabel replied. 

“ Have you studied our literature at all?” 

“ I have read 3'our poets.” 

“ Have 3’ou read Lamartine? ” 

“ I know his ‘ Meditations.’ I think they are beau- 
tiful.” 

“ Do vou know his prose works?” 

“ No.’’ 

“Then, if 3"ou allow me, I will send them to 3^ou. 
You may read them in all confidence, and 3*011 will tell 
me what 3*ou think of them, — especially of ‘ Raphael.’ ” 

‘ ‘ Thank 3^ou ; I shall be glad to have some books to 
pass the evenings till Miss J ones is well enough to come 
to me.” • 

Mabel’s heart misgave her as she said it. 

“ I trust that may be ver3* soon,” said her companion, 
speaking cheerfully. 

The brougham stopped. Monsieur de Volque assisted 
her to alight, saw her safe to her own door, and drove 
awa3’. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


295 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


M abel was at the Hotel-Dieu next cla}’, at a few 
minutes before three. 

Miss Jones had been delirious through the night, 
but she was calmer now ; the fever had gone down, 
and Mabel was conducted to her bedside. 

There were few words spoken between them. Each un- 
derstood the otlier, and felt what was passing in her 
heart better than words could have told it. Mabel did 
not upbraid Miss Jones for going to the hospital instead 
of coming to her ; she knew wh^" it had been done. It 
was cruel kindness, but she would not say so. For 
nearl}’’ an hour she sat by the sick woman, holding 
her hand. She told her wliat had happened since they 
met, — not much to tell, but every detail of her daily 
life was full of interest to Miss Jones. 

When the clock struck four, Mabel rose to go, 
smoothed her friend’s pillow, an(? kissed her gentl3^ 

A Sister of Charity was standing at the door of the 
ward as she passed out. 

“ Is my friend very ill — dangerously ill?” she asked, 
bringing out the word with an effort. 

The nun took her hand. 

“ Would it grieve you very much if le bon Dieu took 
her to Himself?” 

“ Oh, ma soeur ! ” 

The cry was scarcely audible ; it came more from 
the eyes than from the lips that were white and 
quivering. 

“ Priez, mon enfant ; la priere pent tout,” whispered 
Soeur Philomene ; and she glanced at a crucifix over the 
infirmary door. 

Mabel made no answer, but hurried away. 


296 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


She came again next day, though they told her she 
could not be admitted. Miss Jones would hear that 
she had come ; Soeur Philomene promised to tell her. 

“Your friend is better to-day, and passed a good 
night ; but 3’ou will do well not to see her too often,” the 
sister said ; “ it might excite her, and she has great 
need of rest.” 

“But I ma^’ come and ask how she is?” pleaded 
Mabel. 

“Yes, 3^011 may come and see me every da3^, if it will 
comfort 3' on. Have 3^011 far to come? ” 

“ From the Batignolles, ma soeur.” 

‘ ‘ Pauvre petite ! ” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind that. I would come all the way 
barefooted to bring her a moment’s peace ! ” 

“ God will do that. He has given peace to her soul ; 
she is calm in the midst of her suffering. I have seldom 
seen an3" one suffer so beautifully. What a pity she is 
not a Catholic ! ” 

‘ ‘ I have never spoken to her about it,” said Mabel, 
striving in vain to retain her composure ; “ but it is my 
daily pra3’er.” 

“There is no argument so persuasive,” answered 
Soeur Philomene ; “ take courage ; pra3" unceasingly. 
And now good-by. I will tell Miss Jones that 3’ou 
have been here. What is this?” 

“She is fond of oranges; will 3011 give her these, 
with my love? And, ma soeur, I cannot bear the idea 
of her being in a public ward. Is there no means of 
avoiding it? I am told there are private rooms to be 
had b3^ paying. I will pa3" willingly.” 

“ Then I will have her moved,” answered the nun. 

“Thank 3’ou. And 3"ou will not let Miss Jones 
know I have interfered — promise me that, ma soeur.” 

“Yes, I promise 3’ou ; ” and pressing Mabel’s hand 
affectionatel3', Soeur Philomene hurried back to her 
ward. 

On her wa3^ across the court3- ard, Monsieur Grosjean 
stopped Mabel, and handed her a parcel. 

“Who brought this?” she inquired. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


297 


“Un grand Monsieur, decore, who came in a car- 
riage. I saw him here once with Miss Jones,” explained 
the concierge. 

Mabel opened the package, and found three volumes, 
— “Jocelyn,” “ Graziella,” and “Raphael.” 

On entering her apartment, she was surprised to find 
a fire lighted in the salon, and the table laid for dinner. 

There was a smell of bouillon through the rooms that 
she was at a loss to account for. She opened the 
kitchen door, and beheld a marmite puffing on the 
fouryieau. Had some beneficent fairy come in through 
the keyhole during her absence? 

While she was revolving the possibility of such an 
event in her mind, a tap was heard at the door. 

“Madame Grosjean ! ” exclaimed Mabel, in amaze- 
ment ; “ have you been playing the fairy in my menage 
to-da^^ ? ” 

‘ ‘ Mon Dieu ! it gives me too much pain to see 
Mademoiselle going out in the wet to fetch her petit 
bout de diner at the charcutier’s. It makes my heart 
bleed, voyez-vous ? ” and Madame Grosjean rubbed her 
e3'es with the corner of her apron. 

“ But I assure you, Madame Grosjean, I don’t mind 
it the least now ; I ’ve grown accustomed to do eveiy- 
thing for m3^self, — even the cooking.” 

“ I can’t stand it ; indeed I can’t ! ” sobbed the ten- 
der-hearted soul ; “I’d rather serve Mademoiselle for 
nothing, than go on bearing it.” 

Mabel could have laughed outright. What did this 
palaver mean? What was Madame Grosjean driving 
at? 

“ If I don’t work for Mademoiselle, I’ll work for 
nobod}^” protested the landlady ; “du reste, there is no 
one in the house who wants me now, and it ’s a mourir 
d’ennui with no one but Grosjean to speak to. I’ll 
just come up for a minute in the morning, and get 
Mademoiselle’s coffee readjs as I used to do, and — ” 

“ I ’ve quite given up coffee,” interrupted Mabel ; “I 
take cold milk in place of it.” 

“ Cold milk in such weather as this ! Pauvre cher 


298 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


agneau ! ” ejaculated Madame Grosjean, throwing up 
her hands in horror. 

“ I take a long walk after it to the Louvre, as you 
know, and that prevents me feeling the cold.” 

“ Bonne Sainte Genevieve ! ” cried Madame Gros- 
jean, did an}' one ever hear the like ! ” 

Mabel’s astonishment increased along with Madame 
Grosjean’s. 

“ I ’ll tell Mademoiselle what I ’ll do,” proposed the 
latter ; “ I ’ll boil Mademoiselle’s milk with ours ; that ’ll 
save lighting a fire up here, and it will cost me nothing 
but the trouble of bringing it up, which won’t be a 
trouble, but a pleasure. Vo3’'ez-vous, cela me fait trop 
de peine,” and up went the sympathetic apron. “I ’ve 
never been easy in m3' mind since I left off serving 
Mademoiselle. I saw how pale and thin she was grow- 
ing, and I knew whose fault it was. Last night I 
couldn’t sleep, thinking of it; no more could Grosjean. 

‘ Madame Grosjean,’ he sa3's to me, ‘ we can’t go on 
like this to la petite.’ Sauf votre respect, that’s how 
he calls Mademoiselle behind her back. He feels like 
a father to Mademoiselle, does Grosjean. ‘ Non,’ I say 
to him, ‘I ’ll make an end of it to-morrow.’ So I took 
the key and came up and lighted the fire, and tidied 
about a bit.” 

Mabel was conquered. And so those good people 
had been ifi tying her, and wanting to help her with 
their willing hands and hearts ! 

“ 1 don’t want an}' mone}' from Mademoiselle. She 
may pay me when she gets rich, or not pay me at all, 
for the matter of that,” declared the landlad}'. 

She had worked herself up into believing she was in 
earnest. 

“I am very grateful to 3'ou, Madame Grosjean,” said 
Mabel, la3'ing her hand on the w'oman’s arm, “ and if 
it gives 3'Ou pleasure to be kind to me, I will not gain- 
say 3'ou. But I must tell 3'ou frankl}', I am much 
poorer than when I first came. I cannot afford a fire 
every da}'. See, I have been eking out the remains 
of the wood you bought me ; I have had none in since.” 


MAB^L STANHOPE. 


299 


“Wood is cheaper now by half,” said Madame 
Grosjean. 

“I am delighted to hear it. That is the thing I 
found hardest to bear, want of fire. I never have pot- 
au-feu or roast meat ; I found it too dear.” 

“ Meat ’s come down half price, too,” informed Ma- 
dame Grosjean. “I’ll bu3' Mademoiselle’s with m3* 
own, and it sha’n’t cost her more than that vilain gar- 
got she has been living on these three weeks past.” 

“Well, I see you are bent on taking care of me, and 
I am very willing to be taken care of,” replied Mabel, 
thoroughly convinced of the good-nature and disinter- 
estedness of the landlad3*. 

“Quel bonheur!” exclaimed Madame GrOvSjean, 
squeezing her apron between her hands. “ Oh, la, suis 
je contente ! and maybe Grosjean won’t be glad ! ” 

She seized a spoon, and plunging it into the marmite, 
began skimming the soup, by wa3’ of entering at once 
on her newly recovered duties. 

Mabel went into the drawing-room, and took off her 
bonnet. Madame Grosjean said she had grown pale 
and thin. The girl looked at herself in the glass, and 
for the first time saw that she was changed. Her color 
w’as more transparent, her cheeks had lost their ros3^ 
tint, and there were black rings under her e3*es, that 
she had never remarked before. It was a face that no 
mother’s e3*e could have rested on now without a pang. 

There was a couch across the window ; Mabel drew 
it near the fire, and lay down. A sensation of intense 
weariness came over her. It was nice to have her din- 
ner brought in to her, instead of messing about it her- 
self ; it w^as pleasant to have a fire to sit down 1)3*. If 
onl3^ Miss Jones were there ! She lay with her eyes 
closed till Madame Grosjean bustled in with the dinner. 
The good woman put all on the table at once, and then 
went downstairs. 

After dinner Mabel opened “ Graziella,” and did not 
close it till near eleven o’clock. The fire had gone out, 
and it had grown veiy cold. 


300 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


chaptp:r XXXV. 

ABEL’S long walks to the H6tel-Dieu interfered 



sadly with her j^Kiinting. She w’as obliged to 
leave the Louvre at two, in order to be at the Hospital 
at three punctually. 

The improvement in Miss Jones’s state had not ad- 
vanced since Mabel had seen her ; still, she w'as no 
worse, and this was of good omen. The minister of 
her own church had been twice to see her. Soeur Phil- 
omene offered to read aloud a chapter from the “Imita- 
tion,” and Miss Jones gladl}' assented. 

“ Is there any other book 3’ou would like me to read 
to 3’ou ? ” asked the sister, as she closed the volume so 
deai’l}’ prized b}^ Catholics. 

“ I should like to hear a little of the Bible. You do 
not read English, ma soeur?” 

“ No ; but I can read 3 011 the Bible in French.” 

Soeur Philornene fetched her little Testament, and 
henceforth no da3" passed without her reading a chapter 
from it to the sick w^oman. v 

Mabel begged Miss Jones to tell her if there was an3'- 
thing she fancied ; but self-denying to the last, her 
friend declared that she fancied nothing. * 

In despair, Mabel took Soeur Philornene aside, and 
asked her as a favor to sa3’ if there were anything that 
would be good for Miss Jones, that she might take her. 
Soeur Philornene thought for a moment. 

“ Mademoiselle spoke of some sort of jell3’ that she 
liked ver3' much, but I could not make out what it was. 
I guessed gelee de groseilles, de pommes, d’ananas, but 
she shook her head at them all. Perhaps it is son' tpj 
kind of English preserve?” / 

“ I dare say she meant calfs foot jell3%” repbe'd 
Mabel. “ We give it very much to invalids in England 
, I will try and get some.; but remember, ma soeur, yea 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


301 


must not let her suspect it comes from me, — you will 
give it to her from 3’ourself.” 

“ C’est cela,” assented the sister; “ we ’ll keep it a 
secret ; 3’ou majr trust me.” 

The jelly was ordered at an English confectioner’s, 
and conveyed surreptitiously to Soeur Pliilomene. The 
kind-hearted nurse, thinking it would give Mabel pleas- 
ure to see Miss Jones enjoy her present, brought in 
some of the jell}' while she was there. 

“ Oh, how good of you, ma soeur ! Just what I have 
been longing for ! ” exclaimed Miss Jones. 

“ I thought you never longed for anything,” observed 
Mabel maliciously. “ You told me you never did.” 

“ Did I, dear? I dare say it was true at the moment ; 
but I was childish enough to long for some calf’s-foot 
jelly, and to tell ma soeur of it. See how she spoils 
me ! Why am I so thirsty, I wonder, ma soeur ? ” she 
added, turning to the nurse. 

Soeur Philomene felt her pulse. 

‘ ‘ A touch of fever, — I will get yon a drink ; ” and she 
went to fetch it. 

“ What a pity we are not in summer,” said Miss 
Jones ; “I could suck grapes instead of sipping tisanes 
all day. They are so insipid, it goes against me to 
swallow them.” 

She finished the jelly. Mabel took the saucer from 
her, and laid it down on a little table near the bed. 

When Soeur Philomene returned, she made a sign to 
Mabel that it would be well to go. Mabel rose at once. 
Miss Jones did not urge her to stay. Earth had no com- 
fort for her like that gentle presence ; but she knew that 
the young girl’s time was wanted for other things, and 
she grudged every moment that was given to herself. 

“Not to-morrow, darling, mind, — next day. Forbid 
her to come to-morrow, ma soeur.” 

“You hear. Mademoiselle, — I am ordered to forbid 
your coming till Sunday. It will be a nice visit for 
Sunday,” she added pleasantly. 

The*^ following day Mabel was at the Louvre before 
the doors were open, and worked till evening without a 


302 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


moment’s pause. She must work to live ; but now there 
was another motive more powerful even than this, — one 
that gave a stimulus to her exertions which no personal 
consideration would have done, — she must work for 
Miss Jones. True, her friend was well cared for, and 
provided with eveiy necessaiy, almost with every comfort ; 
but in her present state she wanted something more. 
Luxuries had become a necessity" to the invalid, — the 
sickly appetite should be coaxed with dainties. Grapes 
were thirty francs a pound. Mabel had inquired at 
a fruiterer’s where she saw boxes in the window filled 
with the cool, green fruit. She longed to be able to 
take one to Miss Jones ; but thirty francs a pound ! 

On Sunday she set off‘ to the Hotel-Dieu with another 
pot of jelly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Miss 
Jones enjoy it, and express her gratitude to the kind 
sister for it. 

“ Will you read me a chapter, dearest? ” she said to 
Mabel when they were alone. “ Soeur Philomene reads 
one to me eveiy day in French ; but somehow it does n’t 
come home to me so well. I have a longing to hear 
my sweet St. John in English.” 

‘ ‘ Where is your Testament ? ” asked Mabel. Miss 
Jones raised her head, and pointed to the pillow. Mabel 
put in her hand and drew out the familiar little black 
book. It was well worn since she had last read out 
of it. The leaves were discolored, and on the margin 
were remarks on the text, written in pencil ; no intel- 
lectual commentaries, but simple thoughts, — words 
whispered into the ear of God. 

Mabel went on reading for some time. Suddenly 
she looked up, and met Miss Jones’s eyes fixed on her 
with an expression of strange intensit}’. 

“ Mabel, will you answer something I want to ask 
3*ou?” said Miss Jones. 

“Yes, — that is, if I can.” 

“ Tell me, if I die a Protestant will you lose all hope 
of seeing me again ? ” 

Mabel closed the little black Testament, and placed 
her right hand upon it. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


803 


^ “ No ; as I hope to enter heaven I hope to meet you 

ll there,” she answered solemnh*. 

F Miss Jones breatlied a deep, low sigh, as if a heavy 
load had been lifted from her heart. 

^ “ Thank God ! ” she murmured, a peaceful smile shin- 

J ing upon her features. “ I feel it will be easier to go 
now.” 

Mabel fell upon her knees beside the bed and buried 
j her face in the pillow. Soeur Philomene came in by 
i and by with a cup of tisane^ and found them still hand- 
clasped and silent. Miss Jones seemed wrapped in 
prayer. Two bright drops were trembling in her up- 
turned ej^es ; but her face was calm, as if the spirit 
wdthin were already lifted above all human strife. 

The sister laid her hand softl}" on Mabel’s shoulder 
and whispered something in her ear. She rose at once. 

“ I have brought you some barlej’-water,” said Soeur 
Philomene, holding the cup to her patient’s lips; “it 
will be a change from the tisane.” 

Miss Jones tasted it. 

‘ ‘ Oh, ma soeur, if the vines would but hurr}^ on a few 
months sooner this year ! I do so long for a cool, sweet 
grape,” she said, putting away the cup from her lips. 

The next daj’, to Miss Jones’s great delight, the sister 
arrived with a bunch of the longed-for fruit. 

Mabel did not go in to see her ; she feared Miss Jones 
might suspect and question her. It was an idle fear : 
simple Miss Jones would never have suspected. 

She saw all things reflected in the limpid truthfulness 
of her own nature. Soeur Philomene brought her jelly 
and grapes, and accepted her thanks for them ; it never 
occurred to her to look beyond this fact. 

What if she had known that those sweet grapes had 
been bought at the sacriflce of almost the only article of 
value her dear Mabel possessed, — the pretty silver- 
mounted travelling-bag ? Sir J ohn had paid fifty guineas 
for it, and Mabel was glad to part with it for ten. She 
resolved to spend that sum exclusively on little comforts 
for her sick friend. 


S04 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


HE cop3^ was nearl}^ finished. Monsieur de Yolque 



had been several times to see it when Mabel was 


not there. He noticed that her work was progressing 
but slowl}". 

Late one afternoon, as she sat alone waiting for 
Madame Grosjean to bring in her dinner, Monsieur 
Grosjean came upstairs and handed her a card, sa3’iEg, 
“Monsieur begs to know how Miss Jones is.” 

Monsieur de Volque’s name was on the card. 

“ Sa3^ with m3" thanks and compliments, that she is — 
a little better to-da3",” answered Mabel after a moment’s 
deliberation. Monsieur Grosjean took down the mes- 
sage, and reappeared presentl3". 

“ Monsieur le Comte presents his compliments, and 
would be glad if Mademoiselle would do him the honor 
of receiving him for a moment.” 

“ Certainl3". Show him upstairs.” 

She hurried awa3' the cloth and the dinner things that 
were spread upon the table, replaced her work-box and 
books, stirred the fire, and sat down to await her visi- 
tor, whom Monsieur Grosjean accompanied to the 
door. 

“I am happ3" to hear a better account of 3"our friend, 
Mademoiselle ; I trust she ma3" soon be well enough to 
come to 3"ou,” said Monsieur de Volque, seating 
himself. 

Mabel’s e3"es grew moist. 

“ I hope so,” she said. ^ 

“ Do 3"ou see her frequenth" ? ” 

“ Eveiy second da3". She will not allow me to go 
oftener.” 

“ She is quite right. You will not restore her health 
bv injuring your own. And have you been reading any 


MABEL STANHOPE 


305 


of rn}’ friends ? ” he asked, taking np one of the volumes 
he had sent her. 

‘ ‘ I have read them all.” 

“ And what do you think of them? ” 

“ I was delighted with ‘ Graziella.’ ” 

“ More so than with ‘ Raphael? ’ ” 

“ Well, yes. ‘ Raphael’ is such an odd mixture of 
the sublime and the ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculous?” Monsieur de Volque slightly ele- 
vated his brows. 

Mabel feared she had made herself look ridiculous in 
his eyes. She was soriy for what she had said. 

Monsieur de Volque saw her embarrassment, though 
he did not penetrate its cause. ‘ ‘ You are right,” he said. 
“ Julie was but half a woman ; eveiy true woman must 
feel that in reading the story. She was the vapory crea- 
tion of a poet’s brain, but no true woman. Julie was 
a poetical grimaciere ; she adored Raphael, but she did 
not love him.” 

He kept turning over the pages as he spoke, without 
looking at Mabel. She looked at him. His words per- 
plexed her ; she had an undefined feeling that he had 
entered upon ground where it would be unsafe for her 
to follow. 

“Have 3’ou read ‘ La Nouvelle Heloise,’ Mademoi- 
selle?” inquired Monsieur de Volque, laying down the 
volume. 

“ No ; I have hardly read any French books.” 

“ ‘ Heloise ’ is one of our chef-d’ oeuvres. I shall send 
it to 3’ou ; and I envy 3^011 the pleasure of reading it foi* 
the first time. What would I not give to be as 3’oung 
as I was when I first read it ! ” he added with a sigh. 
“ Youth is a glorious thing. It sees all things through 
the rose-colored prism of its own brightness ; it turns 
eyen grief to 303%” 

“ Oh, Monsieur ! ” exclaimed Mabel, throwing up her 
hands with a gesture of denial and pain. 

“ You don’t realize it now ; wait till ten 3 ’ear 3 hence, 
and then — nous verrons ! ” He went on touching lightly 
on man3" subjects. He Iiad travelled a great deal, 

2f) 


306 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


especially in the East. His early years had been spent 
in the army ; part of his services had been in Africa. 
He told her the history of his first boyish campaign 
among the Arabs ; his bivouacs on the desert, enlivened 
b}^ feats of wild daring between his fellow-soldiers 
and the savage occupants of the sandy plain, — pan- 
thers, leoi^ards, jackals, prowling round the camp at 
nigbt. 

Mabel listened with intense interest to his stories of 
camp life in that land of legend where, from' Regulus to 
Augustine, such grand lessons have been taught, such 
grand deeds done. 

The clock struck six. 

“ I thank you for allowing me the honor of this inter- 
view, Mademoiselle,” said Monsieur de Volque, rising. 
“ I was uneasy at not seeing 3’ou in the galleiy and' 
anxious about your friend. May I call to inquire for 
her a few days hence?” 

“ How kind 3’ou are to be anxious about her ! She 
has no one but me to care for her,” said Mabel, with 
grateful warmth. 

When Monsieur de Volque was gone Mabel sat lean- 
ing her head against the mantel-piece, and thought over 
all he had said. It w as veiy comforting to feel that he 
took an interest in Miss Jones and was anxious about 
her. She felt more hopeful and in better spirits than 
when that bit of pasteboard she kept twirling in her 
hand was presented to her half an hour ago. Monsieur 
de Volque had not seen Miss Jones since she had fallen 
ill, therefore his opinion could be of no value whatever 
in the case ; 3’et the wa}' in which he had spoken of her 
recovery as a matter of course had the irrational effect 
of reassuring Mabel, — his kind words and confident 
tone soothed her. 

Later in the evening, Madame Grosjean brought 
up a parpel of books. It contained the “ Nouvelle 
Heloi'se,” “ Corinne,” and the “ Lettres de Pascal.” 

The name of Jean Jacques Pousseau startled Mabel. 
She had heard of him as one who had dipped his pen in 
poison, a blasphemer 'and a sophist. Yet would Mon- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


307 


sieiir de Volqne have given it to her if the book were 
bad, or unfit for her perusal? No, surely not. It did 
not follow that all Rousseau’s works were bad because, 
some were. 

She had some necessaiy needle-work to do, so with 
courageous self-denial she put the books on one side, 
and did not open them that evening. 

She had not seen Madame de Valtiraju- since the 
night the}' had gone together to Madeleine’s house. 
Tlie day after Monsieur de Volque’s visit, she went to 
the Champs Elysees on leaving the Louvre. 

Olga was, as usual, in the last stage of exhaustion, — 
hunted to death by fournisseurs., and worn out with 
the excitement of the great world. 

Mabel was too accustomed now to her affectations to 
be much moved by them. “ Do you know the Marquis 
de Loriac? ” she asked. 

“ De Loriac, the minister? Yes, of course; the 
most delightful man in Paris. He is one of my adora- 
teurs, ma chere. Who told you about him?” 

‘‘ Soeur Philomene ; she advised me to try and get 
introduced to him. Will you introduce me, Olga, or 
give me a letter, if that would be less trouble?” 

“ Pourquoi faire? ” demanded the Baroness, with an 
air of surprise. 

“ I am told he is very kind to young artists, and 
encourages them a good deal. He might give me an 
order for some pictures, if he saw what I can do, and 
if I were well recommended.” 

“ My recommendation would be worth nothing,” 
replied Olga, fiddling with her handkerchief. 

“You said he was a friend of yours?” 

“ Un adorateur seulement. He would have no re- 
spect for my opinion of your talent, because I am quite 
ignorant of painting myself. Besides, chere petite, the 
Marquis is — very charming, but not just the person for 
jQii to — ” She hesitated, and looked at Mabel to see 
how far the girl understood her. But the dark eyes 
were as limpid, as blind to her meaning as a dove’s 
might have been. 


808 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“The fact is, he is rather eccentric,” remarked 
Madame de Valtimyr. 

“ Yon said he was so charming,” said Mabel, puzzled 
at the contradictory statement. 

“In a salon, 3'es ; but he’s not a man to make a 
friend of.” 

• “ I didn’t dream of making a friend of him,” said 
Mabel. 

“Or a patron either,” observed Madame de ValtimjT. 

The footman appeared at the door. 

“ Can Madame la Baronne see her jeweller? ” 

“Oh! mon Dieu I never a moment quiet I Show 
him in,” said the persecuted beauty. 

Mabel stood up. 

“ Do you know the Comte de Volque?” she asked in 
a low voice. 

“ De Volque — 3’es, I do. What of him ? ” 

“I’ll tell you another time. And 3^011 ’ll tiy and 
see Madeleine and beg of her to think of me, won’t 
you?” 

“ Ma bonne, you see how occupied I am I — never a 
minute to call my own. Besides, Madeleine is never at 
home in the da3q and it’s so difficult to remember 
what one has to sa3^ to a person when one 01113’ sees 
her flitting b3" of an evening.” 

“ I suppose it is. Then good-b3’, Olga.” 

“ Good-bv, cherie ; come soon again to see me: it 
does me good.” 

“ Poor Olga ! ” thought Mabel, as she descended the 
handsome staircase, with its tapestried walls, jar- 
dinieres filled with flowers, “ poor Olga, I would not 
change with 3’ou I ” 

She went straight from this luxurious home to the 
hospital, where her onh" friend la3" dying. 

Miss Jones was failing rapidly ; but as it often hap- 
pens with those dying of her disease, her sufferings 
grew less as they drew near the close. The fever came 
only at night, so that when Mabel saw her in the after- 
noon, painless and placid, with that happy smile of 
welcome lighting up her face, she was chented into the 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


809 


belief that Miss Jones was growing better, and might 
still be spared to her. 

She kept her well supplied with every delicacy that 
could tempt her appetite, or allay her tliirst, — grapes 
in abundance. The price of the travelling-bag was 
spent ; then her handsome muff was disposed of. One 
by one every article worth selling disappeared ; but 
Mabel would have sold the shoes from her feet rather 
than let the sick w'oman want for the few dainties that 
j could alleviate her sufferings. She told her of Monsieur 
I de Volque’s visit, of the books he had lent her. The 
j name of Rousseau startled Miss Jones. 

“ My child,” she said, “ I don’t like the idea of your - 
reading Rousseau. He was a bad man, and an infidel ; 

! he scoffed at God, and at His Gospel ; his writings are 
I false and immoral. Promise me not to read that book.” 

, And Mabel unhesitatingly promised. 

• Her next meeting with Monsieur de Yolque was at 
I the Louvre. He inspected her work, and gave her, as 
I usual, some valuable hints about painting in general. 

They went downstairs together. 

I As the day was fine there was no ostensible reason 
i for offering to drive her home ; but apparently' he 
j thought it was no longer necessary to have any pre- 
j text, for he merely^ observed, “I have an hour on my^ 

I hands, so I can have the pleasure of seeing y*ou home. 
Mademoiselle,” and he opened the door of the brougham. 
Mabel got in, and they drove off. 

Monsieur de Yolque made kind and anxious inquiries 
about Miss Jones ; and Mabel, who was in better 
spii'its about her, answered them hopefully. 

“Have you read ‘ Heloise?’” he asked presently^ 

“I have had no time for reading since I saw you.” 
There was more truth in the letter than in the spirit of 
her answer. 

“I am curious to know what you will think of it,” 
observed the gentleman. 

Mabel said nothing. She was ashamed of her own 
cowardice, — first, in having promised Miss Jones not to 
read it, and now in being afraid to say' she had done so. 


.810 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“Perhaps he ma}" not ask me again,” she thought. 
“I will send back "the books, and he will take it for 
granted I have read them.” Then it occurred to her 
she did not know where Monsieur de Volque lived. 

“ Are you governor of the Louvre, Monsieur?” she 
inquired, by waj’ of coming at the fact indirectl3\ 

“ No. What made j’ou think 1 w^as?” 

“ I onh' fancied 3’ou might be, because 3'ou seem to 
have the open sesame of its doors. Do 3’ou know 
Monsieur de Loriac?” 

“ Yes. Are 3’ou acquainted with him?” he asked in 
surprise. 

“ No. I wush I were. Thej’ sa}^ he is veiy eccen- 
tric ; is it true ? ” 

Monsieur de Volque laughed. 

“ Is that 3'our reason for wishing to know him?” 

“ Not exactly,” replied Mabel, blushing. 

“ Who told 3’ou de Loriac w’as eccentric?” 

“Perhaps I ought not to sa3', since Monsieur le 
Marquis is a friend of 3'ours.” 

“You need have no fear. A minister of France 
and the first lion of Paris is too big a man to be a 
friend of mine,” replied Monsieur de Volque ; “I know 
de Loriac as all Paris knows him.” 

“ Do you advise me to make his acquaintance ! ” 

“ No,” he said wutli emphatic brevity. 

“ Why?” demanded Mabel. 

Monsieur de Volque seemed at a loss for an answer. 
“ You are 3^oung,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation 
— “ and beautiful,” another man might have added ; but 
Monsieur de Volque was too much of a gentleman for 
that, — “ and 3'ou are alone,” he continued. “ The fewer 
acquaintances 3^011 make, the better.” 

Mabel said nothing ; but it occurred to her that if 
she had acted on this principle from the first, she 
would have lost both the friend beside her and the one 
wdio had led to him, Mr. Grinaldi. 

“I wull call in a day or tw'O,” said Monsieur de 
Volque, as the brougham stopped at Number 15 , “ and 
I hope to hear still better tidings of Miss Jones.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


811 


! : The day or two passed, and again, as Mabel was 
sitting at her work towards five o’clock, Madame Gros- 
jean handed her Monsieur de Volqiie’s card. He would 
not come up without her permission, the concierge said, 
I adding, “ II est si comme-il-faut, ce monsieur! ” 

Mabel desired her to let him come up. His first word 
was an inquiry for Miss Jones. Mabel was less san- 
guine to-day ; she had been witli her friend that morning, 
and found her feverish and exhausted after a bad night. 

“ As soon as the fine weather comes round, she must 
get change of air,” remarked Monsieur de Volque. 
He said it like one who had a right to interfere in the 
matter. 

For herself, Mabel Stanhope felt she w^ould rather 
starve than accept pecuniary assistance at his hands ; 
but for Miss Jones the case was different. Before she 
could make any reply, he said, — 

“And ‘Heloise?’’” 

Mabel blushed scarlet. “ I promised Miss Jones I 
would not read it,” she said.* It cost her a struggle to 
sa}^ this ; she feared he was going to be offended, 
i Instead of expressing his surprise, Monsieur de 
i Volque took up the volume and began turning over 
I the leaves, as if he were considering in his own mind 
I whether there was an3’thing in it that justified Miss 
Jones’s prohibition. 

“ He is angiy with me,” thought Mabel ; “ he thinks 
me ungrateful ; ” and she agreed with him that she was. 
Why need she have told Miss Jones about it at all? It 
could not have poisoned her. In fact, there could be 
no real harm in it, or he would not have given it to 
her ; he who had showm her so much brotherly, nay, 
fatherly interest. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “ if you 
wish me to read that work, I wdll go to Miss Jones, 
and ask her to release me from my promise.” 

“ Ma pauvre enfant!” exclaimed IVionsieur de 
Volque, looking up with an expression half- compassion- 
ate, half-amused, “ I should be the last to wish you to 
read anything that could do you the least harm, though 


312 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


I am at a loss to see — However, I dare saj^ I am 
not the best judge. No doubt Miss Jones knows best 
what is likely to suit you. There is probably much in 
the book that a devote might condemn ; but Miss Jones 
being a Protestant, I should have fancied her above 
such contracted notions. It is the one great fault of 
our religion that it is apt to exclude from us all knowl- 
edge tending to intellectual liberty.” 

“Can the immoral writings of an infidel tend to 
that?” inquired Mabel, her face expressing astonish- 
ment. 

“ Immoralit}’ is a wide word, a many-sided w^ord.” 

He half smiled, and laying down the volume, “Believe 
me, enfant,” he said, “life is not made up of questions 
to be answered out of the Catechism. There are les- 
sons to be learned, and battles to be fought ; sooner or 
later the fight must begin. We have the elements of 
war in our own hearts ; the sooner we studj* them the 
bettei v).' 

“ Butjis Bousseau the best school to study in ? ” asked 
Mabel ; “is there not a purer guide ? ” 

“ Purity is very beautiful,” replied Monsieur de 
Volque, “but of little practical use through life. If 
3'ou have an enemy to fight, 3011 must look him in the 
face. To guard against a danger, we must be aware 
of its existence. Tliat evil does exist, we cannot 
deny.” 

“No, we cannot den}^ it; but neither can we lessen 
or avert it bj' making acquaintance with it. God has | 
implanted in our hearts an instinct that warns and 
protects us.” 

“Instinct will avail ns little without knowledge and 
experience,” insisted Monsieur de Volque. 

Mabel was silent for a moment. 

“ You told me the other day,” she said presently, 

“ that once when 3^011 were in Africa, riding near tlie 
blue Nile, 3iour horse took fright at' the approach of a 
crocodile, and galloped off before you had seen what 
frightened him. Who told that horse, bred and born 
in Europe, to fly from crocodiles ? ” ^ 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


313 


“ fair logician,” replied Monsieur cle Volqiie, 
with one of liis courtly bows, “ Rousseau himself could 
no more hold out against such an antagonist than I, 
his poor disciple, can pretend to do.” 

“ Oh, I see ; you think me too silly, too great a child 
to be argued with,” said Mabel in displeasure. 

Perhaps he did ; for the disciple of Rousseau could 
no more understand the self-protecting strength her 
child-like purity gave her, than Epicurus could have 
comprehended the self-sacrificing spirit of Christianit}'. 
But 'whatever he thought, he shrank from tearing away 
the veil that clouded her view of life. It might be foil}*, 
and fraught Avith ungiiessed dangers to so guileless and 
ardent a nature, but it Avas beautiful, — beautiful as the 
freshness of early dawn, before the hot noon-sun has 
roused the sleepy earth into Avakefulness and life. 

“ Sleep, and dream while you may, belle innocence,” 
he murmured, as if talking to himself; “ le reA*eil 
viendra assez tot ! ” Then, assuming a banter' dg tone, 
“I see it’s dangerous to tell you stories, 3’oiing lad}*; 
since you ponder OA^er them, and when I least expect 
it, hurl them at ray defenceless head, to defeat me with 
my own arms.” 

“Monsieur,” said Mabel, seriously, “I wish you 
would not laugh at me.” 

“ I’m not laughing at you, only at your prejudices.” 

“ My principles, you mean ; that’s just Avhat I don’t 
like you to laugh at. I would not laugh at yours, 
though I fear some of them are wrong and dangerous.” 

She spoke so earnestly it was impossible to answer 
her in his former trivial strain. 

“ Since you won’t laugh at me,” he said gravely, 
“ you must try to convert me.” 

“ I Avill try, — • but not by argument, I am too ignorant 
for that ; I Avill pray for you.” 

Monsieur de Volque smiled ; he made no ansAver, but 
sat silent, looking into the fire, and twirling his mus- 
tache. 

“ AYhat ! have I kept you a whole hour idle Avith my 
wicked conversation ? ” he exclaimed, pulling out his 


314 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


watch. “I ought to be ashamed of myself.” Then, 
laying his white and rather effeminate hand on the ob- 
noxious volume, “I suppose,” he said, “ I had better 
carry off this poison- bottle. Later, when you know 
life and your own heart better, you may ask me to give 
it back to you, and I will. You are too young now, 
but a day will come when 3 011 will see things different!}", 
and do justice to Rousseau. He has been a beacon- 
light to many a pilgrim in the darkness.” 

‘‘ God help the pilgrim Vvho has to trust to such a 
beacon!” said Mabel. “Oh! Monsieur de Volque,” 
she continued with emotion, “ how is it that yon can 
be deceived b}' such false philosophy ? If I were onl}" 
a man, with learning and wisdom, and could speak to 
3’ou as 1 feel ! ” 

Her earnestness was far too real to be answered b}’ 
one of those trivial compliments that Monsieur de 
Volque had always at command, and generally found 
telling in arguments with the gentler sex. This was an 
antagonist different from those he had hitherto encoun- 
tered. There was a vigor of faith in that girlish mind 
that was not to be shaken by sophistiy". As he looked 
at her beaut}’ and remembered her circumstances, he 
felt that there was an eloquence in her life more persua- 
sive than the S3’stems of all the philosophers ; he saw 
in it the grandest evidence of her faith’s sustaining 
power. 

“ Do not think too badly of me,” he said, with feel- 
ing. “ If I have pained you, forgive me. When 3’ou 
know me better, you will, I trust, acknowledge that it 
is possible to admire Rousseau, and yet, without h}*- 
pocris}’, call one’s self a Christian. Meanwhile, restez 
dans le ciel ! ” He laid his hand upon her head, and 
taking up the condemned work, went awa}". 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


315 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A MONTH went by without bringing any marked 
change in Miss Jones ; but one da}^, Mabel, on 
opening the door of the sick-room, was startled at the 
change that had taken place since her last visit. 

The cheeks had fallen in, till they seemed almost to 
touch each other ; the e3’es shone like glass in their 
sockets, staring wide open with a preternatural bright- 
ness. Miss Jones was d3dng. There was no conceal- 
ing it now ; no cheating the heart into a doubt. The 
lamp had burned its last drop of oil ; a few more flick- 
ers, and the ^oark would go out. 

Mabel sat down beside the dying woman. An un- 
wonted calm and strength had come to her. She would 
have stilled her breath, the very throbbings of her heart, 
rather than disturb the hol3" peace of that death-bed. She 
was about to lose the friend whose love had been like 
some visible angel b3’ her side, — a grand, strong love, 
akin to a mother’s, rather than a friend’s. And now 
she was going to lose her ! What did the loss involve? 
Loneliness, desolation greater than words could tell. 
She dared not trust herself to speak. Yet there was 
much to be said, and little time to sa3^ it. It is always 
so at the last. 

For more than an hour she sat there quite still. 

Miss Jones seemed hardl3" conscious of her presence. 
At last she made a sign for Mabel to draw near. She 
held her hand, and pressed it feebly. 

“ M)' darling ! ” 

Mabel’s heart leaped up within her to catch the words. 
The3' were too low to reach her ear ; she bent over Miss 
Jones. “ Is there anything you wish to say to me?” 

“I want to bless 3’ou, my child; to thank you. I 
know all now. May God give it back to 3'ou a hundred- 
fold ! ” 


316 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Mabel laid her cheek softl}’ on Miss Jones’s lips. 
“ Hush ! Don’t try to speak. Don’t thank me. I owe 
you eveiTthing. It must be a comfort to you to feel 
that you have saved me from despair. Take my heart’s 
best blessing up with 3'ou to God.” 

“ You will not grieve too much, my own,” murmured 
the dying Christian. “ I am leaving one friend near 
3'ou ; Monsieur de Volque promised me he would be 
kind to 3’ou. But God will be with 3^011 above all. I 
can see it, I can see it,” she repeated, as if some glance 
into the future were vouchsafed to her soul hovering on 
the threshold of eternit3' ; “He will not try 3’ou above 
3 0ur strength. I fanc3’, too, that He ma3’ let me watch 
over 3’'ou still. Be true to Him, m3’ child ; 3’our Saviour 
is the friend 3’ou can never lose.” 

Her voice grew fainter ; she closed her e3’es, and her 
lips moved as if in pra3’er. • 

Mabel sank upon her knees, and breathed, rather 
than spoke, some recommendations for the departing 
soul. 

Soeur Philomene knelt down beside her, making the 
responses to the prayers of the Catholic ritual. 

“ Ma soeur ! ” murmured Miss Jones. 

Soeur Philomene put her ear to the dying woman’s lips ; 
then, in obedience to the whisper, she took Miss Jones’s 
hand, and placed it on Mabel’s head. 

“ God bless thee, m3^ child ! ” broke faintly from the 
stiffening lips. 

In that blessing her spirit fled. 

Mabel neither shrieked nor swooned, but rose up 
from her knees, and reverentl3’ closed the sightless e3’es, 
and composed the lips whose last sigh had been a bless- 
ing to her. 

“You had better go now, ma pauvre enfant; I will 
see to all that is needful. Go and rest,” said Soeur 
Philomene kindl3". 

But Mabel’s dry eyes were fixed upon the dead. Was 
it all over? Was this her last look at that pale, worn 
face? It was all too agonizing to be true ! 

Soeur Philomene drew her aside, and spoke words of 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


317 


comfort to her. This silent fortitude was terrible to look 
at ; it was not natural. She tried to make her weep, 
but the tears would not come. Then Soeur Philomene 
told her to kneel down, that they might pray together 
for the departed soul. 

“ Pray for her ! ” echoed Mabel passionately ; “ does 
she want our prayers ? Is she not happy ? Is she not 
in Heaven?” 

“ Let us hope it. God’s mere}’ is great, but — ” 

Mabel turned an agonized look on the sister. “ Ma 
soeur ! j’ou do not doubt that she is saved ? ” 

“God forbid,” replied Soeur Philomene solemnly; 
“ e’etait line ame droite.” 

The words calmed Mabel at once. She approached 
the bed, and kissed the brow that could no longer feel 
her caress. 

“At what hour must I return to-morrow, ma soeur?” 
she asked quietly. 

“ My dear child, 3’ou had better not return ; you have 
great need of rest for mind and body. Trust to me for 
w'hat remains to be done,” answered Soeur Philomene. 
There was an embarrassment in her manner as she said 
this ; but Mabel did not notice it. 

“ No, ma soeur, I must be with her to the last. She 
•would not have been absent from me at such a moment. 
At what hour will it take place?” 

“ That depends on what arrangements ma}’ be already 
made,” said Soeur Philomene. Then, after a moment’s 
hesitation, she added; “If 3’on do not mind remain- 
ing here alone for a few minutes, I will go and inquire. 
Will 3’OU be afraid?” 

“ Afraid !- with her?” Mabel clasped her hands, and 
knelt down beside the bed. Soeur Philomene closed the 
door, and left them alone, — the living with the dead. 
Mabel was in a sort of stupor. She knew that the form 
lying there was Miss Jones’s dead bod}^ that it was 
lifeless and numb, as if the grave had held it for a month 
past ; she believed all this, but she could not realize it. 
She spoke words of tenderness ter the departed one, — 
thanking her, blessing her, asking her to pra}’ for her, to 


318 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


watch over her still, to he her guardian angel in death, 
as she had been in life. There was so much she longed 
to say to her, and which She bitterly regretted not hav- 
ing said in time ! But it was not too late. The voice 
of the soul could reach the disembodied spirit. In 
low, passionate murmurs she whispered to the dead, — 
words that could reach no ear but the one she fondly 
hoped might hear them even 3'et. 

Some time passed thus. Then Mabel opened the win- 
dow, and stood to let the cold air blow upon her brow. 
It was burning ; her ej’es, too, were hot and painful. 

There were voices in the court-yard below. One was 
a man’s, — probabl^^ one of the porters. Mabel did not 
hear what he said, but a woman’s voice answered sharply, 
“ Of course not. Whj' should she be treated different 
from others ? If there is no famil}’ to claim the bod}’, 
the surgeons have a right to it.” 

Mabel listened with a throbbing heart. The man’s 
voice spoke again : — 

“ Soeur Philomene wants to have it saved, and buried 
whole. I don’t think ces messieurs will agree to that. 
They say there is a lack, of subjects, and they can’t 
afford to lose one.” 

“No,” quoth the woman. “Besides, it would not 
be fair to the students.” 

“ Ma soeur says the little Anglaise will go out of her 
mind when she hears it,” observed the man, his tone a 
pitying one. 

“ Who’s going to tell her, for the matter of that?” 
answered the woman. 

A door closed below, Mabel heard no more. She 
had heard enough ; this was why Sceiir Philomene urged 
her not to return, — that those hallowed remains might 
be given up to the dissecting-room, hacked and mangled 
by the surgeon’s knife ! But she would save them. 
Yes, if her life were to be the cost ! How? B}’ flying 
with the body? Impossible. She would be met and 
her burden seized before she reached the hospital door ; 
and even there, how could she convey it away? 

Mabel looked, like a hunted creature, from the win- 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


319 


dow to the door, from the door to the window. No 
escape anywhere. It was maddening. But something 
must be done. There were footfalls without ; the creak- 
ing of a man’s boots approaching the door. Were they 
j- coming to carry away the dead? She took her stand by 
the couch ; terror in her heart, wild defiance in her e3’e. 

The door opened. She flung back the coverlet, and 
closing her arms round the corpse, locked her hands in 
a vice-like clasp. Her face was lifted towards the door ; 
there was horror, despair, madness in its white lips and 
wavering e^^e. 

Soeur Philomene came forward, followed by a tall 
gentleman, with a fair English face. 

“Mon enfant, what is this?” she exclaimed, terri- 
fied at the countenance and attitude of the girl. 

“ As there is a God in heaven, 3^ou shall not take her 
from me ! ” shrieked Mabel. 

Soeur Philomene fell back appalled. Had Mabel 
heard what the bod}" was destined for, or did some 
keen instinct of her heart divine it? 

The gentleman advanced towards her. “Do not be 
frightened,” he said in English ; “we are not going to 
take her from 3^011. Let go 3’our hold, and be calm. I 
promise 3'ou the body shall not be touched.” 

Still she strained the corpse to her bosom. 

‘ ‘ Do you swear it ? ” 

“ On m3" honor as a gentleman.” 

Genth", tenderl}", as if fearful of awaking the sleeper, 
Mabel relaxed her arms, and recomposed the bod}" in 
its resting-place. 

“You must leave for the present,” said the stran- 
j ger, seeing that his promise had satisfied her; “there 
[ remain certain duties to be performed that you would 
not wish to have omitted.” 

! He took her b}’ the hand to lead her from the room. 
; Mabel hung back. 

i “ Can I not sta}" till — till it is done? ” 
f “You still doubt my word?” said the stranger in a 
I reproachful tone. 

“No, no; I am sure 3"OU are telling me the truth. 


820 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


But will they obe}^ you here? Who are 3^ou? What is 
your name ? ” 

“ Sir Gregory Heartwell ; I am a medical man, and 
my word has influence enough to insure the fulfllment 
of what I promise.” 

“ When may I come back?” asked Mabel, jdelding 
her hand, and allowing him to lead lier away. 

“To-morrow morning, at eight, or let me see; ma 
soeur, can 3’ou sa}’ nine? It would be less inconvenient 
for Mademoiselle to have it an hour later ; will that in- 
terfere wdth other arrangements ? ” 

“ No, Monsieur, 3’ou may say nine,” answered the 
sister. 

Mabel held out her hand; “ Ma soeur, 3^ou are not 
angry with me ? ” 

“ Pauvre petite? No ; may God comfort you ! ” she 
took the pale, sweet face in both hands, and kissed it. 

Sir Gregory drew her wdtli him outside, led lier down- 
stairs, and out into the “ Place” where his carriage was 
waiting. 

“I will see 3'ou home,” he said; “where do 3’ou 
live?” 

“ Thank 3^011. Rue St. Louis, 15 .” 

Mabel felt at home with this stranger, as if she had 
known him long. She could have fallen down at his 
feet and blessed him. He had saved her from an agony 
that she could not have endured and lived. Yet from 
very fulness of gratitude the poor child was dumb ; she 
could not find a word to sa3’ ; her throat was full of 
blessings that she could not utter. She turned and 
looked at him. 

Sir Gregoiy understood that glance ; he was used to 
the look of gratitude, — his life was spent in evoking it. 

“Are 3’ou quite alone in Paris,” he asked, washing 
to put her at ease, and anxious to learn something of 
her position. 

“ Yes ; quite alone now.” 

“You will not think me intrusive, — but are you 
occupied in any wa3’?” 

“ Yes, I paint. I am cop3’ing at the Louvre.” 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


321 


“ You must find it diflScult to dispose of 3’our pict- 
ures, there is so much competition.” 

“ I have onh' painted one. Mr. Grinaldi, the libra- 
rian, sold it for me. I am now painting one for the 
Comte de Volque.” 

“ De Volque! oh, he’s an acquaintance of j’^ours? 
A clever artist himself,” rejoined Sir Gregoiy. “ You 
ai’e in the right waj’ to succeed if de Volque takes an 
interest in .you. He ’s an excellent fellow, and knows 
all Paris. I did not know he had come back.” 

Had they met a da}' sooner, Mabel would have 
overpowered him with questions concerning her patron. 
But now she was too crushed, too broken-hearted. 
She had not shed a tear ; her voice was steady, her 
whole demeanor calm and self-possessed ; but Sir 
Gregory was a medical man, and even had he not 
witnessed the scene at the HOtel-Dieu, it could not 
have escaped him that she was in a ^tate of dangerous 
and unnatural excitement. He noticed that she put 
her hand occasionally to her side. 

1 “ If I may venture to give my advice without being 

I asked,” he said, with a kind, bright smile that made his 
face pleasant to look at, “I should very much like to 
prescribe for you. I sha’n’t put you on the sick-list,” 

: he added cheerfully, “ but you want to be looked after 
a little. Let me feel your pulse.” 

Mabel bared her wrist. 

“You put your hand to your side now and then; 
are you suffering?” 

“I am very tired, — that is all.” 

“Not quite all,” corrected Sir Gregory. “Is this 
f where you live? Then I shall come up, if you allow 
I me, and write a prescription at once.” 

I They went upstairs together. 

It seemed to Mabel that the whole place had under- 
; gone some change since morning. It was empty' of 
j something that had filled it heretofore. Miss Jones had 
i only been for half an hour in the little salon; it was 
; not her familiar presence that was wanting, and yet 
I the place was empty. 


21 


322 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


She went quietl}' for her writing-desk, and placed it 
with pen and paper before Sir Gregory. 

He asked a few questions regarding her general 
health, and wrote a prescription. Then he took out his 
card and laid it on the table. 

“ I must ask you to call upon me in a few days, 
unless you should feel worse ; in that case, write me a 
line, and I will come to you. It ’s no inconvenience ; 
I have calls to make in every quarter,” he added in his 
off-hand way. 

Mabel felt the same choking in her throat again. 
“Thank 3^011; you are ver\’ good,” she said with an 
effort, and closed the door behind him. 

The loneliness was horrible. There was the little 
nook that had been waiting for Miss Jones. The bed 
was made, and turned down ready to receive her. 
Mabel sat down beside it. The world seemed to have 
gone wrong. H#vv was it to get right again, since 
death was in it? 

Wearil}’ the da}’ dragged on till evening. The night 
passed. She la}’ sleepless on her bed till dawn. She 
had not shed a tear ; they were choking her, but they 
would not flow. 

Next morning, at Madame Grosjean’s entreaty, she 
tried to swallow a cup of coffee before setting out to 
the Hotel-Dieu. 

She assisted at the service, prayed beside the coffin, 
and then fainted away. 

When she recovered, Sceur Philomene was bending 
over her, bathing her temples, and watching anxiously 
for some sign of returning consciousness. The sister 
tried to make her weep, but in vain. 

Then she took her to the chapel, and prayed aloud 
for the soul that had gone to the judgment seat; 
but Mabel said amen to the JRequiescat in pace ^ with- 
out shedding a tear. 

“ Go home, and try to sleep,” said the sister, 
embracing her compassionately when they left the 
chapel. 

And on reaching home, Mabel did lie down, and she 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


323 


tried to sleep ; but tlie effort" was a failure. At last, 
when the da}" waned, and it was almost dusk, worn out 
with watching and fatigue, she fell asleep, — not heavily, 
for in her slumber she heard the key turn in her outer 
door. It was Madame Grosjean, no doiibt, going about 
the dinner. The salon door opened. Mabel started up 
from the sofa and saw Monsieur de Volqne beside her. 
With a cry, she stretched out her hands to him. He 
caught her in his arms, and held her to his heart. She 
burst into a passion cf tears, and sobbed unrestrainedly. 
He did not attempt to soothe her, but let her weep on, 
guessing it was the, best, the only comfort she could 
have. By degrees the sobs grew less convulsive, and 
the tears flowed quietly. 

“ Pauvre enfant ! Pauvre colombe ! ” he murmured, 
as if speaking to a child. “ You are alone now, -r— you 
1 have lost youi dear friend ; I have heard all. But you 
I are not friendless. I will try to fill her place ; you 

i shall be my treasure, as you were hers. I will w’atch 

• over you as she did.” 

“ She promised me you would ! ” and Mabel raised 
her eyes to his, with an expression that was almost 
happiness shining tiirough her tears. 

“ I will keep the promise,” he replied, taking her hand 
in his. It was a solemn one to make. Was Fernand 
de Volque the man to fulfil it? Mabel Stanhope be- 
lieved he was. Heaven help the mortal who would dare 
to shake her trust ! 

He drew her gently to tell him all about Miss Jones’s 
death. It was a comfort to her to talk of it. She told 
every particular of the event, dwelling on the beautiful 
resignation, the holy peace that had accompanied it; 
and the man of the world listened with profound inter- 
est and seeming reverence, to language hardly more in- 
telligible to him than an Egyptian epitaph would have 
been to Mabel. He was too much of an artist not to 
seize the fine points of the picture ; taken merely in an 
artistic point of view, they were full of poetry and 
touching beauty : even the folly of it all bordered too 
closely on the sublime not to command his admiration. 


824 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


He remained silent when Mabel had ceased her nar- 
rative and answered all his questions. From time to 
time an expression difficult to define crossed his fea- 
tures. More than once he was on the point of speak- 
ing, then suddenh’ checked liimself. It was as if a 
struggle, violent though wordless, were going on in his 
mind ; but Mabel did not notice this. Unconsciouslj', 
she had grown to love Fernand de Volque ; and with 
her, to love and to trust were one. Besides, Miss 
Jones had bid her trust in him ; and how could Miss 
Jones be wrong? 

The short February evening closed in around them ; 
the fire burned low upon the hearth ; but for the flicker 
of its embers, the room would have been in darkness. 
Mabel heard a step in the antechamber. It was 
Madame Grosjean. She herself did not feel the slight- 
est embarrassment at her tUe-a-tUe with Monsieur de 
Volque : it seemed natural to her to trust him as a 
brother ; but the idea did occur to her that it might 
seem odd to the coiiciercfe. “It is getting late,” she 
said gently. “lam detaining you ; ” and she attempted 
to rise from the sofa where the}’ were sitting together. 

“ Not 3’et, not yet ! ” he whispered hoarseh’, grasping 
her hand. 

For the first time, there was something in his man- 
ner which slightl}" startled Mabel. She drew awa}’ her 
hand from his, and stood up. 

The action aroused him. 

“ Mabel,” he exclaimed passionatel}^ ; “we must not 
part thus ! Nothing but m3' fear lest the avowal might 
seem premature could have kept me silent till now ; 
but I can bear it no longer. I have seemed cold, indif- 
ferent. Did you not guess — ? When an hour ago I 
held 3’ou to m3' heart, did not its beatings tell you how 
fondly, how ardenth' I love 3’Ou? And 3’Ou, was there 
no feeling save sisterly regard in the cry that welcomed 
me? Answ^er me. My hope, m3' happiness, m3' life 
are in your hands ! ” 

In her hands ! Mabel had never asked herself if 
Fernand de Volque loved her. Perhaps she had hoped, 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


825 


na}", almost believed it, though she would not have 
dared confess it to herself. But now the avowal over- 
came her. She forgot how little she knew of him or 
his antecedents ; she forgot the expressions whicii more 
than once had escaped him, and which had astonished 
and alarmed her. She forgot everything but that she 
loved him, and that he loved her, — loved her with that 
noble intellect, that loyal heart ; for lo3'al it was, — had 
not his whole conduct towards her proved it beyond 
doubt? 

“ Mabel, answer me ; say that 3’ou accept m3" love, 
— that 3’ou love me — ” 

“ With m3’ whole heart ! ” 

. He took her in liis arms, and kissed her. 

When he was gone, and Mabel found herself alone 
once more, she asked herself if she was not dreaming. 
It was hard to realize that she had been actually 
living through all that had happened during the last 
few hours, — the horrible scene at the hospital yes- 
terda3’, the agon3’ of her grief, and the joy that had fol- 
lowed on it so quickl3’. Miss Jones’s blessing had, 
indeed, brought down dew from heaven on her head ! 
Her tears burst forth afresh as she recalled her friend’s 
last words, and thought how she would have rejoiced 
in her new-found happiness. 

But presenth", as she sat there crying and watching 
the fire-light dancing on the wall, otlier absent ones 
seemed to come near her ; a sweet, pale face looked at 
her, and a low voice murmured her name. If her 
mother were here now, how different everything would 
be ! Her father had driven her from him in his anger, 
and left her to fight her wa3’ through life as best she 
could ; and Lad3’ Stanho[Xi, for all Mabel knew to the 
contrary, had not found courage to gaiiisa3’ his hard 
will, and make a stand for her child. And 3’et Mabel 
believed in her love, and loved her and trusted her as 
much as if the3" had never been i)arted. Was it right 
or possible for her to take so serious a step as the one 
before her, without writing to her mother, to both her 
parents? Perhaps time had softened her father’s anger ; 


326 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


perhaps when he learned how bravely she had struggled 
with adversity, he might forgive her for deserting the 
faith of her fathers. He would see, at least, that it was 
no childish fancy; he who was so resolute and firm in 
all that he deemed a duty, might he not come ’to judge 
- more justly, more generously of that resolution in his 
child? At all events, her course was clear; she must 
write to him. 

It was not an eas}’ task ; but Mabel put her heart 
into the doing of it. She wrote a dutiful and loving 
letter to her father ; she could not express regret for 
what she had done to grieve him, but she did pour out, 
in words that were eloquent with sinceiity and feeling, 
her grief at being separated from him, and exiled from 
her home, and at receiving no word, no token of for- 
giveness. She told him she had partiall}" succeeded in 
gaining an honorable livelihood by her talent in paint- 
ing ; that poor, humble, unprotected as she was, she 
had won the love of the best and noblest of men, and 
that, with her father’s consent, she hoped soon -to be 
his wife. 

To her mother she wrote a fe\y earnest lines, implor- 
ing her intercession with Sir John. Again and again 
did Mabel kiss the missive, as though the paper could 
have borne her caress to the loved absent ones. 

She addressed it to the Park, taking for granted that 
all letters sent there were sure to be forwarded to her 
father ; but it so happened that the servants had that 
very day received oiders to keep any further letters 
that came, as the family were on their way home. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


327 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

T he next was Siindaj'. Monsieur cle Volqne 
had promised to come earlj* and accompany her 
to high Mass at the Madeleine ; but when the hour 
came and Mabel was read}’ to start, a messenger ar- 
rived with a note from him, a few' hurried lines written 
at his club, telling lier that important business called 
him suddenly out of town, and that he w'ould, probabl}', 
be absent three da3's. Pie implored her to take care of 
herself meantime, for his sake, and to let him find her 
on his return improved in health and spirits. He trusted 
the separation w^ould prove more endurable to his be- 
loved Mabel than it would to him. Mabel was terribly 
disappointed. What business could he have to call him 
awa}' from her at such a moment? Pie might have told 
her what it was. She was hurt and angrv as well as 
disappointed. She went to the Madeleine alone, and 
cried her heart out, thinking of Miss Jones, and pra3'ing 
for her, and realizing her loss more intensely than she 
had done even the da3' before. She spent nearh' the 
whole of the day in church, seeking comfort in the faith 
for the sake of which she had sacrificed and suffered so 
much. The comfort did not fail her. She was calmer 
and stronger at the close of the lonel3' da3^ and slept 
well that night. 

In spite of this, she felt very tired next morning, and 
her head ached. It was parth' this, and parth' the 
longing for a touch of human kindness that reminded 
her of Sir Gregoiy Pleartw^eH’s desire that she should 
go and see him ; so after breakfast, she set out to the 
Rue Richepanse. 

The doctor w'as not yet returned from his round of 
morning visits ; but a number of patients were alread3' 


328 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


waiting for him in the drawing-room, when Mabel was 
shown in. 

Sir Gregory made his appearance a little before one. 

He came in taking off' his gloves, threw a rapid glance 
round the room, bowed, and noticing Mabel, “Oh! 
how do you do. Miss Stanhope?” he said, and crossed 
the salon to shake hands with her. “You’ll excuse 
m3’ not attending to 3’ou at once,” he added apologet- 
ically. 

“ Pra}’ don’t mention it ! ” protested Mabel, coloring ; 

“ I came in last.” 

“You are looking fiftj^ per cent better than when I 
saw 3’ou last,” he said, when her turn came and she 
entered his stud3’. “ Let me feel your pulse. A very 
pretty pulse indeed ! ” 

The consultation did not last long ; he wrote out a 
prescription, and then said, “ And how goes on the 
painting? Are you making a fortune? ” 

Mabel smiled. “Not yet. Sir Gregory.” 

“ You are copying at the Louvre, I think you told 
me? Yon must let me see some of your pictures.” 

She was embarrassed by this request. Would Fer- 
nand wish her to parade her work now? Still she could 
not refuse what was asked in such perfect kindness. ! 
“ I am copying a Claude,” she said. • 

“ I will drop in at the Louvre and see it,” observed 
the doctor. 

“ Oh no,” replied Mabel ; “I could not let 3’ou take 
that trouble ; I will bring it to you, if 3’ou allow me.” j 

She had her louis-d’or ready, and slipped it on the ] 

table as she rose to take her departure. ! 

“What’s this?” exclaimed the doctor, picking up i 
the twenty-franc piece, and thrusting it into her hand. | 

“ Oh, I cannot suffer it. Sir Gregory ! ” declared i 
Mabel, coloring, and closing her fingers against him. ’ 

“I’m very sorry, but you must suffer it,” he in- \ 
sisted ; “ 3’ou would not have me guilty of such an 
unprofessional proceeding as to take a fee from a 
patient wLo came to see me at m3’ own request ? ” 

Mabel did not resist further. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 329 

“I’ll look ill on 3’ou very soon,” said Sir Gregory, 
and ivished her good-morning. 

“I wonder why people say the world is so unkind,” 
thought Mabel; “it seems to me there is much more 
kindness than ill-nature in it.” 

She worked with unflagging industry all next day, 
and finished the picture. On coming out of the Louvre, 
she called a cab, and drove to the Rue Richepanse. 
Sir Gregory was charmed with the copy, and said so 
wdth an impulsive cordiality that sounded pleasantly in 
the young artist’s ear. 

“It is purchased already’, I believe?” observed the 
doctor. 

“ Yes, by Monsieur de Volque,” replied Mabel, with 
a tell-tale blush, which luckily Sir Gregory did not 
notice. He was still intent on the picture. 

“ Let me see,” he mused, thrusting his hand into his 
waistcoat ; “I think I could secure you an order if you 
let me keep this for a few days.” 

“Monsieur de Volqiie will be at home to-morrow,” 
answered Mabel, ill at ease ; “as the copy is his now, I 
don’t feel at libert}' to leave it without his permission.” 

“Oh, naturally. Well, let me hear what de Volque 
sa3’s, and I ’ll take the matter in hand, and see what 
can be done. Government orders are sometimes given 
to copyists at the Louvre.” Sir Gregory caressed his 
chin and ruminated : “ There ’s Maronil, and Villecourt, 
and Loriac. I ’ll think it over, if you ’ll ask de 
Volque to let me have the picture for a day or two. 
By the b3'e, how long has he been back in Paris ? It ’s 
more than a year since lie set out on his travels.” 

The announcement took Mabel b}?- surprise. Mon- 
sieur de Volque had never told her of these recent 
travels. She answered evasivel}' that she did not know 
how long he had been back. 

“ He and de Loriac used to be intimate,” remarked 
Sir Gregoiy ; “he might be of use to 3’ou in that cjuar- 
ter. However, I ’ll see about it.” 

Mabel thanked the doctor, and took leave of him. 
She felt as if she had been playing the hypocrite in not 


330 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


telling him that she was no longer in need of his patron- 
age ; but she could not bring herself to tell him that 
she was engaged to Monsieur de Volque, and there was 
no other wa}" of enlightening him and accounting for the 
sudden change in her position. 

Meantime, soon after she had left home that morning, 
a quantit}^ of beautiful flowers had arrived at the Rue 
St. Louis, and Madame Grosjean exercised her taste in 
arranging them in the salon. It was marvellous, the 
change that had come over the Grosjeans. Madame 
Grosjean’s zeal and attention were exemplary ; but most 
wonderful of ail was the economy she practised in her 
tenant’s mhiage. At one-half the expense of the flrst 
month’s service she contrived to furnish the best of eveiy- 
thing. Mabel innocent!}’ remarked on the fact ; and 
Madame Grosjean explained to her satisfaction that 
since the snow had disappeared things were half as 
cheap again. Not being much of an economist, Mabel 
accepted the explanation thankfully, and troubled her- 
self no further about the matter. 

About three o’clock Monsieur de Volque drove up to 
the Rue St. Louis. He seemed much annoyed not to 
find Mabel. Madame Grosjean invited him to go up 
and wait for her. ‘ ‘ Mademoiselle was not likely to 
remain out late to-day ; she had probably only gone 
to her painting pour se distraire un pen.” Monsieur 
de Volque thought this w^as likely enough; so after 
a moment's hesitation he followed the concierge up- 
stairs. 

She stirred the fire, threw on a fresh log, and placed 
a chair, and fidgeted about in hopes of a little conversa- 
tion ; but finding that he remained obdurately silent, she 
took her departure. When he was alone, de Volque 
stood up and leaned his back against the mantel-piece. 
He was laboring under some great excitement, — painful 
excitement, judging from the expression of his face. 

He remained some time quite still, his eyes fixed upon 
the hearth-rug ; then with a half-muttered exclamation, 
he dashed his hand through his hair, and walked to the 
window. In his agitation he overturned the work-table, 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


331 


on which were Mabel’s tapestiy and writing-case. With 
that innate perversity that belongs to inanimate things, 
the Berlin- wool balls rolled as fiir as possible out of liis 
reach. lie picked them up, and replaced the portfolio. 
Something slipped out of it; he took it up. It was a 
piece of cardboard with a crayon sketch of himself. 
The likeness was too good to admit of a moment’s 
doubt ; but under it was written his name — “ Fernand.” 
He looked at it wistfully, replaced it carefull}^ in the 
blotter, and flung himself on the sofa, — the pretty 
green sofa on which he had sat beside Mabel and told 
her of his love. The recollection did not calm him. 
Starting up suddenlj’, he opened the portfolio, took a 
pen, and began to wu'ite. Rapidh' it sped over the 
paper; page after page was covered. Then he stopped, 
read over the letter, tore it up, flung it into the Are, and 
rose and began to pace the room again, muttering to 
himself: “Is it my fault? Have I not striven against 
it? I cannot help fate.” 

He paused. “I had better speak to her; she has 
learned to love me.” An expression of anguish crossed 
his features. He sat down. The clock struck five. 

“ Not here yet ! ” he exclaimed. “ I must be going.” 
He w^ent to the door, hesitated with his hand upon the 
lock, came back to the table, sat down and wrote another 
letter, and then hurried from the house. 

It was past six when Mabel returned. On opening 
her door she became aware of a delicious perfume of 
flowers, and going into the salon., beheld it full of ex- 
otics ; roses of eveiy hue were scattered through the 
room wdierever a vase could be placed. 

He had come back then, and had been here in her 
absence. Mabel went from one nosega}" to another. 
Was there nothing hid in any of them? No missive 
lurking anywhere? At lest she found it, — not hiding 
among the flowers, but lying boldly on the table. With 
a trembling hand she snatched her treasure, and sat 
down to read it. Soon a strange shadow passed over 
her face. She read on to the end, and then dropped 
the letter. “My God! m3' God!” broke from her 


332 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


bloodless lips, and clasping her hands above her head, 
she fell senseless to the ground. 

For one short hour the swoon kept her agony at bay ; 
then she awoke to it. Was it not a dream after all? 
The letter lay beside her ; she took it up and read it 
again. No, it was not a dream. Had she gone sud- 
denly mad ? It seemed to her, as she sat there pressing 
her hands against her eyes, that she must be mad. 

The hall bell rang. She started. Who could it be? 
Mabel rushed to the door, and turned the key twice in 
the lock. 

“ C’est moi, Mamselle,” cried Madame Grosjean from 
without. 

“ I am not well ; I shall not want anything to-night ; ” 
and without heeding Madame Grosjean’s expostulations 
she went back into the salon., closed the door, and 
locked herself in again. 

She was stunned, dazed. What was any and every 
blow that had fallen on her young life compared with 
this? It was her first vision of sin, — sin as a reality. 
She knew that it existed, as she knew that physical 
monsters did ; but that it should come close to her, touch 
her, sit down by her side ! Had the sun dropped out 
of the heavens and left the whole world in darkness, it 
w'ould not have been more awful or more unnatural than 
this. 

What was her father’s anger, exile, poverty, even 
Miss Jones’s death, compared with it? The blows had 
been hea\y and hard to bear; but they had come to 
her from God’s own hand. They were crosses that He 
had laid upon her shoulder ; the}* might wound and pain, 
but the}* could not harm, — in her deepest anguish 
Mabel had felt it so. But from what hand had this 
black phantom come to wither and blight her soul? 

She had loved with the strength and trust of a heart 
that believed in falsehood as it did in crime, — a hideous 
possibility which could never approach her. She awoke 
to find the monster at her side, in her heart. 

The night was half-spent, and Mabel was sitting in 
the same place, shivering wdth cold, her limbs stiff and 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


833 


numb. She groped her way to the bed and lay down 
without undressing. She fell asleep, and dreamed that 
she was out at sea in a storm. The waves were lashing 
in &ry against her little boat ; the night was dark and 
starless ; the wind howled and shrieked over the white- 
crested waters. Her hands were paral^’zed with fear 
and cold, and could hardly grasp the oar*; if they failed 
her she must perish, for the boat had neither sail nor 
helm. Her hands grew stiffer and colder, till at last the 
oar, struck b}’ a wave, bounded from her. The sound 
of her own shriek awoke her. 

She sat up on the bed^ hardly sure whether it had 
been a dream or not. Then she thought perhaps the 
other had been a dream too? She struck a light, and 
looked for the letter, and held it up to the candle. No ; 
this was not a nightmare, but a horrible reality. “ He 
would make her happy ; he would be her slave ; he 
would love her with a love be\'ond all words ; but fate 
had raised a barrier between him and his will ; he could 
not make her his wife. Did she trust him, — did she 
love him enough to forego the empty form, the mockery, 
that men laughed at while they cliafed under its chains ? 
His heart, his fortune, his life, were at her feet ! ” 

And this was the hero of her first love ! — the man 
whom her girlish trust had lifted so high above all other 
men ! 

Trill}", if the idolatry of her worship had been wrong, 
the punishment was greater than the sin. The idol had 
been hurled from its high pedestal, and had fallen upon 
her heart and broken it. It had struck down her hopes 
and blighted them, — ay, even her hope in God seemed 
gone ! Had she not loved Him, and sacrificed all things 
to prove it? For the first time the question arose in 
the 3’oung Christian’s soul: Was the cause w"orth it? 
Was it the true one after all? Was truth an}’ where on 
earth or in heaven? Fernand de Volque was a liar. 
Where could truth be found? Mabel was a woman 
with the making of a saint ; but the woman was upper- 
most yet. 


834 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


T was not in Mabel’s nature to lie clown and be 



I passive under strong emotion of any kind. Her 
faith had been staggered ; but it rose up after the first 
shock, humble and penitent. She prayed with her 
whole soul for pardon ; she prayed that every impious 
murmur might be forgiven : it was well that she should 
snfier and be chastised. 

But what was she to do? Oh, if Miss Jones were 
beside her now ! But regrets and longings could avail 
nothing. Some step must be taken at once. Monsieur 
de Volque said he w'ould be with her that afternoon at 
five. At any cost the}’ must not meet. Should she 
write and tell him so? Perhaps it w^ould be well. She 
could direct it to his club. She took up her pen. What 
was she to say? Accuse him, curse him? She put 
dovvm the pen, and wrung her hands in paiin 

It was no easy task, the writing such a letter ; still it 
must be written. It was done at last. Only a few 
lines. She said she forgave him, and asked God to 
forgive him the cruel wrong he had done her ; then she 
ended by a peremptory command that he should desist 
from any attempt to see her again. Mabel wrote the 
last sentence with a conviction that it would not be 
obeyed. She would at least try to guard against his 
visit by forbidding Madame Grosjean to let any one 
come up. 

Xo sooner had she seen Monsieui* de Volque hurry 
across the court-yard on leaving Mabel’s apartment the 
i:)revious day, than Madame Grosjean, with the instinct 
of her class, at once suspected that something had gone 
wu'ong between the lovers. In her laudable impatience 
to find out the something, she came up rather earlier 
than usual that morning to do the mhiage. The aspect 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


835 


of the room and its occupant confirmed her suspicions. 
The bed was crushed, but had not been opened. Made- 
moiselle had passed the night without undressing ; she 
looked as wan as a ghost. Mabel was conscious of the 
landlady’s scrutiny, and would gladly have avoided it. 
She busied herself putting a stitch in something where 
no stitch was wanted, and answered Madame Grosjean’s 
inquiries about her health and her night’s rest without 
looking up from her work. The necessity of informing 
Madame Grosjean of the abrupt breaking off of her 
relations with Monsieur de Volque was inexpressiblj^ 
humiliating ; but there was no escape from it. 

She waited till the woman was leaving the room, after 
placing the breakfast on the table, and then said, in as 
steady a voice as she could command : — 

"‘Madame Grosjean, I am not at home in future, for 
any visitor, except Monsieur I’Abbe when he returns.” 

Madame Grosjean stood and eyed the young girl 
curiously. 

“ Et ie Comte?” she said curtly. 

“Monsieur le Comte is not likel}^ to call again. If 
he should, I am not at home.” 

“ Have you quarrelled?” demanded the woman with 
insolent familiarit3\ 

Mabel’s e3'e flashed. “It is enough for 3-011 to 
know that I no longer wish to receive his visits,” she 
replied. 

“Oh, pardon I That’s not quite enough,” and the 
concierge., laying aside her S3-cophantic manner, crossed 
her arms, and sat down. “ I must know something 
more,” she continued ; “I must know who is going to 
l)a3’ me all the mone3^ I’m owed.” 

Mabel started to her feet. 

“ What do 3-0U mean? I owe 3’ou no mone3’ that I 
am not prepared to pa3',” she cried indignantly. 

“ I’m glad to hear it,” returned Madame Grosjean, 
retaining her seat and her cool impertinence; “but as 
I don’t know how vour affairs stand, it’s natural I 
should feel anxious about my five hundred francs.” 

“ Five hundred francs ! ” echoed Mabel, aghast. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


836 


“It’s not such a great deal, considering how I’ve 
been feeding you ! ” 

Mabel stared at her in dumb amazement. 

“Ah, 9a!” exclaimed Madame Grosjean, with a 
short laugh, “ did the comedy last all along, or was it 
only with me that he plaj’ed it?” 

Mabel was silent. Her color came and w’ent. “The 
coined}" has evidentl}" been played, and w'ell played with 
her,” concluded the concierge., as she read the genuine 
surprise and terror written in the girl’s countenance. 
Madame Grosjean .was not more wicked than many 
others of her class ; but she was avaricious and un- 
principled. She w"Ould not willingly do an unkind thing 
by a neighbor ; but she would perjure herself till she was 
blue in the face to turn a penny, and think it no great 
harm, as long as it benefited herself. Monsieur de 
Volque had assured her that Mabel was ignorant of his 
interference with her domestic concei'iis, and he wished 
her to remain so. Madame Grosjean swore to keep the 
secret. She did not believe Mabel so unsophisticated 
as not to see through his artifices, whatever she might 
pretend; but that was not her concern. The question 
now" w'as, how much more money could she, Madame 
Grosjean, get out of her tenant? The hrouille was 
something worse than a lovers’ quarrel, since the Count 
was never to be admitted again. He had given Madame 
Grosjean a thousand-franc note only a month back, and 
desired her to tell him when it was spent. The greater 
portion of it w"as still in her hands. Mabel ow"ed her 
nothing beyond the present week’s expenses, and a 
hundred francs for the rent. But Madame Grosjean 
was not going to be put off with that, w hen there was a 
chance of trebling the profits. 

“ Well,” she said, proceeding to state her case, “ I 
don’t know how much he may have told 3"ou, or how 
little, but there’s three hundred francs for the rent — ” 

“ I paid 3’ou last month’s, the da}- it w"as due,” in- 
terrupted Mabel. 

•“ You paid me half of it and Monsieur w-as to pay 
me the other half — that, with this month’s, makes 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


337 


three hundred. Then, there is a hundred francs for 
wine ; he told me to get you good Bordeaux, and so I 
did ; he tasted it himself, and said it was good. Then 
tliere is — ” 

“ That will do,” said Mabel, cutting short the enu- 
meration of her unsuspected debts; “let me have 
your bill, and 1 will pay it. You had better see about 
another tenant for the apartment ; I shall leave it this 
da}’ week.” 

“Pas si vite ! 3’ou took it by the month, and you 
must give a month’s notice,” observed Madame Gros- 
jean, with an expressive wink. “It’ll give us both 
time to look out. Perhaps, en attendant, he may make 
up with you.” 

“ Leave my presence ! ” cried the exasperated girl, in 
a voice that cowed even Madame Grosjean. She stood 
up, and with a movement between a nod and a bow, 
took herself otf. 

The idea that she was being robbed did not occur to 
Mabel. Madame Grosjean declared she owed her five 
hundred francs, and there was the face of truth on the 
assertion. Mabel remembered how and on what terms 
she had taken the apartment. It all seemed plausible 
enough at the time ; but she saw it differentl}’ now. 

“ How could I have been so blind?” she exclaimed, 
as the concierge' s offer came before her in its true light. 
Tlien Madame Grosjean’s stories about the wonderful 
cheapness of provisions, fire, everything in fact, — how 
preposterously simple she had been to SAvallow it ! And 
he was to have paid for it ! Strangely enough, it did 
not strike Mabel that he might have already done so ; 
that it was hardly probable the landlady would have 
spent so much money on trust. This did not occur to 
her, and if it had, she had no redress, except by appeal- 
ing to Monsieur de Volque. The very idea of such an 
alternative would have been too unbearable. 

“ How is the debt to be paid?” thought Mabel, as 
she sat before her untasted coffee. Every article of 
value she possessed had been disposed of during Miss 
Jones’s illness ; her travelling-case, her muff, everv- 

22 


338 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


thing worth selling she had sold, except her watch. 
Had Miss Jones been spared a month longer, that would 
have gone with the rest. Mabel shrank from parting 
with it till driven to the last, not onl_y because it had 
been her mother’s first gift to her on leaving school, but 
because the loss of it would be a serious inconvenience 
to her. There was no help for it, however ; the watch 
must go. 

She put on her bonnet, and without tasting a morsel 
of food, set out to the shop where she had sold her 
travelling-bag. 

The watch had cost fifty pounds ; the man offered 
her twenty for chain and all, and she took it. 

Then hurrying back, she stopped at the lodge, and 
asked Monsieur Grosjean for her bill ; he handed her 
the receipt, and Mabel put down the five hundred francs. 

Since the}^ would not let her go before the end of the 
month, she was in for another two hundred francs. 
Oh, the sickening miseiy it was, in the midst of her 
heart’s anguish to be hunted by this call for mone}- ! 
Yet it must be answered. And where was she to turn, 
how was she to get it? Her picture lay upon the sofa. 
It was her last resource. She shrank from going to 
Mr. Grinaldi now ; but there was Sir Gregory Heart- 
well ! Blessed be the Providence who had mercifull}’’ 
thrown that plank to her in her shipwreck. 

She could not go to him to-day. When could she 
go? It seemed to Mabel as if any exertion for the 
future were simply impossible. If she had to starve, 
what then ? The sooner life was over, the better ; but 
meanwhile, she was in debt. The rent, the unrelenting 
rent, must be paid. 

Alas ! the children of affluence little know how much 
grief loses pf its sting by the absence of such cares. 
Yet, in one sense, they sometimes prove a blessing ; 
they force the sufferer into action. It was so with 
Mabel. The dread of finding herself at the mercy of 
Madame Grosjean roused her to energy, the energy 
of desperation. She would go to Sir Gregoiy. The 
sooner it lyas done, the better, — “ but not to-day, not 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


339 


yet,” she repeated, clasping her forehead with her 
trembling hands. 

Slie flung herself upon the bed, and tried to sleep ; 
that failing, she tried to pra^'. Perliaps the effort was 
more successful than she guessed ; there was worship 
in the cry of her suffering spirit ; there was faith in its 
effort at resignation. She longed to write again to her 
mother, to pour out her sorrow to her, and implore ‘her 
to make haste and come to her. What a different tale 
she would have to tell to-day from that contained in her 
letter a few days back ! She wished she could recall 
that letter ; but till she knew something of its fate, there 
was no use in writing again. 

Thus, in fruitless regrets and fears the day passed. 
It was quite dark when a ring came to the door. Mabel 
started as if a fire-bell had aroused her in the dead of 
night. It could onl}’ be he. He had come up in spite 
of Madame Grosjean’s prohibition, — perhaps without 
asking. 

There was a long pause, and then a second ring. 
Mabel held her breath and listened. She heard a gentle 
tap against the door; it was a habit of de Volque to 
knock so with his cane. Another pause, and then the 
stairs creaked under his retreating step ; in a few min- 
utes she heard his carriage driving away. 


340 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


CHAPTER XL. 

A t one o’clock the following da}*, Mabel was at Sir 
Gregory’s door. 

She had worked herself up to a degree of energy that 
was fed for the time b3" excitement ; the reaction was 
not far off ; but she could keep it at ba\^ while the ne- 
cessity for self-control lasted. Sir Gregory perceived 
at a glance that something untoward and distressing 
had taken place. Mabel said she had changed her pur- 
pose with regard to the picture, and would be glad to 
dispose of it, if he would assist her in doing so. 

What had induced this sudden change? His curi- 
osit}’ was rousedj but with the delicacj’ of a gentleman 
he refrained from expressing it. 

You ma}’ trust I will do m3’ utmost,” he replied, 
after a moment’s reflection, while he seemed to be dis- 
cussing in his own mind the likeliest mode of success. 

“ Maronil is the man — but Maronil is out of town. 
There is de Loriac ; I must let him see it.” Sir Greg- 
oiy looked at his watch : To-day, I fear it ’s not pos- 
sible. I haA^e work that will keep me busy till seven 
o’clock. To-morrow — let me see — to-morrow I am 
due at Versailles for a consultation, a A^ery important 
one. Loriac himself is off to Vienna, I believe, next 
week.” The doctor stroked his chin and pondered. 
“ Suppose I give you a line to him, would you mind 
calling on him yourself?” he asked. 

“No; I must learn to act for m3’self, 3’ou see,” re- 
plied Mabel. “If 3’our kind recommendation secures 
me admittance, I shall try and make the best of my case 
with the minister.” 

“The picture will plead for itself,” remarked the 
doctor encouragingly. He turned to his desk and 
wrote a short note. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


341 


“ I will send this on at once, with the picture, that 
he may see it before 3 011 call,” he said ; and he handed 
Mabel his card. ‘‘If yon go to the Rue de 1’ Uuiversite 
this afternoon, between four and five, you will find the 
minister. Send in my card first, and \’ou are sure of 
being admitted.” 

It was near three w^hen Mabel left the doctor’s house. 
Twent\^ minutes would take her to the Ministerial Hotel, 
and she did not care to spend half an hour in Monsieur 
de Loriac’s ayitichamhre., waiting admittance to his 
Excellency’s presence. Where could she stay mean- 
while ? The Madeleine w^as close b}^ ; she betook 
herself there, and staj’ed till it was time to go to the 
Rue de T Uuiversite. 

It might have occnred to her, under other circum- 
stances, that some slight attention to her toilet would 
not have injured her chance of success ; but she was too 
much absorbed by other cares to give a thought to her 
appearance. 

Apart from the anguish that was crushing her heart, 
there stood palpably before her the face of Madame 
Grosjean, with her receipt for the rent. In the event 
of the money not being forthcoming, Mabel saw' a hor- 
rible vision of gendarmes, and bailiffs, and a prison. 
Nothing short of some strong feeling of terror, and the 
absolute necessity for exertion, could have upheld her 
as she toiled on with Sir Gregory’s card in her pocket. 
But the rent must be paid ; that done, she w'ould await 
W'hat Providence decreed. 

Soon after four o’clock, Mabel w’as at the minister’s 
door. In the antechamber, some half a dozen plush- 
legged laqiials were lolling about on velvet benches. 
The}" e3'ed the daughter of Sir John Stanhope as they 
might have done a pretty Imgere who came with a 
bundle of new shirts for my lord Marquis. 

She handed Sir Gregory’s card, with her own, to the 
groom of the chambers. 

He disappeared into the great man’s sanctuary, and 
returned wdth a message that if Mademoiselle w'ould 
give herself the trouble to walk into the salon Ins 


842 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Excellency would be at her orders tout de siiite^ he 
was engaged with a cabinet minister just now. 

The first object that struck Mabel on entering the 
salo 7 i was her picture standing upon a cabinet against 
the wall. 

In a few minutes the servant came to say son Excel- 
lence was at liberty ; and Mabel was ushered into the 
Marquis de Loriac’s presence. 

The minister was standing in the deep recess of a 
window, his face concealed b3^ the dark-green velvet 
curtain. The groom of the chambers called out Miss 
Stanhope’s name, and left her alone with his master. 

For a moment Mabel doubted whether the great * 
man was aware of her presence. It was onl}' for a 
moment ; when the door had closed upon his servant, 
Monsieur de Loriac came forward and faced her. 

Did her ej^es deceive her, or wms she dreaming? The 
man before her w^as Fernand de Yolque ! Mabel did 
not shriek, nor faint, nor sink into a chair, but stood 
and returned his gaze with an unwavering eve. 

“ Mabel ! ” he exclaimed, and threw out his arm as 
if to draw her to him. 

She did not move, but motioned him from her with a 
haught}’ gesture. There was about this girl — alone, 
friendless, unprotected as she was — a majesD' that 
cowed the Marquis de Loriac, as though the w^eakness 
were all on his side, the strength on hers. 

“Mabel!” he cried, stepping back at her bidding, 
“do not condemn me without a hearing. You cannot 
despise me more than I despise nn self. I have been 
weak, irresolute, cowardl}', but not so utterlj^ base as 
3'ou think me.” 

Her lip curled with incredulous scorn. 

“Yes, I deserve that 3’ou should spurn me, — that 
3'ou should loathe me as the vilest among men ; yet 
Mabel, I sw^ear bv the God — ” 

“ Hold ! ” she cried, raising her hand w ith an imperi- 
ous gesture : “ let one name at least be sacred to 3'our 
falsehood. It is enough that 3^011 have deceived me ; 
there is One wfiiom 3*011 cannot deceive.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


343 


He made no retort. Even in his passion, her voice 
had power to silence him. 

“ 1 have not come to upbraid you. You know better 
than I how little I thought to meet you here. Fernand 
de Volque, or Marquis de Loriac, if it has been the 
work of your treachery to bring me here to-day — ” 

“ Nay, I swear to you on my honor as a man — ” 

Again the lip curled with the same cold disdain. 
His honor as a man ! How dare he mock her by such 
an oath ! 

“ In pity’s name, reproach me, hate me, curse me ! ” 
he cried, goaded to frenzy b}^ her scorn. 

Curse him ! Hate him ! Oh, would to Heaven her 
woman’s heart had strength to do it ! But no, it was 
ciTing out with a loud voice in his defence. He had not 
meant so to deceive her? — let him only prove it, and 
that coward heart was read}’ to believe him, to forgive 
him. 

“Listen to me,” said de Loriac, going up to where 
she stood, and seizing her wrist, — not in tenderness 
but in defiance ; he would hold her till she heard what 
he was wanting to say. “ When I first set foot on your 
threshold, it was from no motive better or worse than 
curiosity. I had seen 3 ’ou at the Louvre, and been 
dazzled by your beauty. I knew nothing of who you 
were, and might never have known, but for the fact 
of your picture haAung been bought by a friend of mine, 

— de Volque. I saw it in his room the day it came 
into his possession. 1 recognized it at once. He said 
Grinaldi had recommended the artist very urgentl}’ to 
his notice. Fie had your address in his pocketbook, 
and showed it to me. The\" told him you were in want, 

— that 3 ’ou might starve unless something were done to 
help you. De Volque had come to Paris, on his way 
from the East, only the dav before, and was off to Eng- 
land next morning. lie asked me to see if I could do 
anything for 3 'ou, and I promised him I would. That 
very day I went to you. A curse upon his head fhat 
sent me ! ” muttered" de Loiiac, letting go her hand. 
“Well, I saw 3 ’ou, I pitied you; a}’, with what good 


344 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


there is in me still, I pitied 3 011. I would have helped 
3'ou, befriended you as an honest man — ” 

“ And as an honest man, you began by telling me a 
lie, by disguising 3^0111' name and passing under a false 
one ! ” interrupted Mabel, in a tone of bitterness. 

“ 1 did. A blight upon my foll3" ! I did. I feared 
that nyy own name might have frightened you.” 

“Frightened me!” 

De Loriac winced. What explanation could he give 
her? “ I disliked having it known at Grinaldi’s that I 
had taken you up,” he continued ; “it would have been 
all over Paris next day, and I might have hurt instead of 
serving 3’ou. De Vplque and I studied sculpture together. 
He was well known in Paris, but he was absent, and there 
was no likelihood of his returning. His name was the 
one that came uppermost wlien 3'ou asked me mine. I 
gave it without a thought as to the consequences. 
Mabel ! ” he cried, after a strong effort to command 
his feelings, “ I loved you long before 3^011 knew it. ’1 
would have saved you from m3'self ; I would have 
guarded you against — ” 

“Forbear, Marquis de Loriac!” said Mabel, with 
indignant pride ; “ 3’ou are speaking to the daughter of 
a stainless gentleman, the descendant of a house whose 
name has never known dishonor ; that name ran no risk 
in Mabel Stanhope’s keeping.” 

“I know it, I know* it!” repeated de Loriac vehe- 
ment^. “ Oh, wh3" was not Miss Jones spared to 
stand between 3'ou and m3’ craven heart ! ” 

' The mention of that name struck the last blow at 
Mabel’s self-control. She sank upon a couch, and 
covered her face with her hands, the tears rolling dowm 
her cheeks. 

De Loriac’s e3’es w’ere fixed upon her ; those tears 
were dropping on his heart like fire. He rushed for- 
ward, and cast himself at her feet. 

“Mabel!” he cried passionateW, “I am not the 
black-hearted villain 3’ou think me. I loved 3’ou, but 
before I was conscious of the strength of that love, my 
hand had been pledged to another — ” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


345 


She started to her feet as if an arrow had struck her. 

“ Hear me out, and see if there be no plea for mercy 
in m3' sin,” he i>ersisted, clinging to her dress, and 
forcing her to resume her seat. Child, \’ou cannot 
know what a thing it is when a man’s love has to do 
battle single-handed against his pride, his ambition, 
his honor ; 3'es, his honor, as men in their infernal 
sophistry will have it. I am affianced to the daughter 
of a prince, plighted to her before the world. I hate 
the woman, — I have moved Heaven and earth to break 
the w'retched contract; but in vain, and now I cannot 
bear the world’s sneers, its ridicule. I cannot face 
dishonor ! ” 

A ciy that sounded at once like a sob and a laugh 
broke from Mabel. “Not face dishonor! In the eye 
of God, of 3'our own heart, of 3'our conscience, was 
not the dishonor to me blacker and more cruelly' false 
than the breaking of such a contract could have been ? ” 

The anguish of a broken heart was in her voice, but 
it was softer now, less bitter. 

“Yes, 3'es,” he muttered, rising from his knees, and 
turning from her; “ the dishonor to 3'ou was treason.” 

He walked from end to end of the stately* room, his 
right hand thrust into his breast, his head bent, his 
step heavy, the blue veins of his forehead swollen like 
knotted cords under the pale skin. There was a des- 
perate war going on within him ; it was not too late to 
conquer still. There stood the prize before him, — the 
woman whom he loved, with a love that might redeem 
his manhood ; if anything pure could dwell in his soul 
and live, his love for Mabel was pure. 

At first, the atmosphere of truth and purity in which 
Mabel breathed had been almost unbearable to him. 
He would have dragged her down to his own level ; but 
he soon saw how vain would be this attempt, and by 
degrees it seemed as if she were lifting him imper- 
ceptibly' to hers. Had circumstances not pressed so 
hardly upon him, his better feelings might have pre- 
vailed ; love and honor might have won the day. But 
fate was against him, — so, in his blind weakness, de 


346 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Loriac said. His marriage was to take place in three 
days hence. The banns were published ; the world was 
pouring in congratulations on the happ}" bridegroom. 
He gnashed his teeth as he thought of it ! And there 
stood Mabel, looking at him, — at the picture of passion 
and despair that he was. 

Suddenly, he approached her. There was a light in 
his e3’e that scared her, — the light of a wild and des- 
perate resolve. He seized her hand, and whispered 
hoarsel}^ : “If 3’ou love me, Mabel, if 3’ou can forgive 
me, mv life shall be too short to repair the wrong I 
have done you. I will fl3" to the earth’s end ; I will 
brave the anger, the scorn of a thousand worlds, if 3*ou 
will forgive me, if 3’ou will be m3’ wife ! ” 

His wife, with the w’orld’s scorn ! 

All Mabel’s pride of race rose up at the insulting 
words. Was she not the daughter of a house whose 
blood was blue enough to mate with princes? He 
would many her out of pit3’, as a king might stoop to 
a peasant ! 

“No,” she answered firml3’, “all is ended between 
us.” 

“ Mabel,” said de Loriac, in a voice husky with 
emotion, “ 3'ou love me; will 3'ou let pride stand be- 
tween you and my love? Be mine, and I will atone 
for the madness of an hour by a lifetime of remorse ! ” 

“Remorse! in the place of honor and truth and 
eveiy noble attribute? No, the change would be too 
bitter. You are not the man I loved ; he is dead — 
dead, and buried under m3’ life’s hope ! ” 

Her voice trembled ; but not her purpose. It might 
kill her, but she would not falter ; she would not many 
a man whom she could never respect, never honor im- 
plicitly, never look upon with trust. 

De Loriac felt it ; he turned from her and groaned. 

Mabel moved towards the door ; it was time she 
should be gone. The sight of his grief was terrible ; her 
heart was growing weak in its compassion, — she must 
be gone. 

De Loriac was leaning against the mantelpiece ; he 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


347 


turned at the sound of her step, went up to her, and 
lading his hand upon her arm : “ Mabel,” he said, “ I 
cannot let 3*011 leave me thus. M3* child, I must be 
3*our friend — 3*0111* brother. I cannot let 3*011 — you 
are alone, unprovided for ; 3*011 gave me the right to 
watch over 3^011, — I will not give it up.” 

His speech was incoherent, as if he hardl3* knew 
what he was sa3*ing. Could this be the man whom she 
had known, — so calm, so polished, so statel3* in his 
manner? 

“God will watch over me,” she answered; but her 
voice broke, for her heart was wrung at the sight of his 
haggard face. “I am not parting in anger,” she said, 
forgetting, true woman that she was, her owm wrongs 
in his suffering ; ‘ ‘ try to be happy, and forget me.” 

She held out her hand. 

He grasped it fiercely, and throwing his arm round 
her, pressed her to his heart in a passionate embrace. 

With a strong effort, Mabel broke from him and 
rushed out of the room. 


348 


MABEL STANHOPE. 




CHAPTER XLI. 1 

M abel walked on with a rapid step, ontwardl}^ as 
self-possessed as the crowd about her. How she ' 
reached home, she could never recollect ; but she did ^ 
reach it, and throwing off her bonnet and shawl, double- ^ 
locked the door, and sat down to try and collect her j 
thoughts. Could it be a real life she had been living J 
these last forty -eight hours*? ■ 1 

It was too late to go out again, and she was too ex- ] 

hausted in mind and body to attempt it, or else her 1 

impulse would have hurried her to the confessional. I 

It was nearly a fortnight since she had been there ; her ' 

confessor was a kind and saintly man, whose help had 
gone far to sustain her in her struggle, since she had , 

been in Paris. She had never spoken to him of her ' 

temporal affairs more than was necessary to unveil the < 

state of her mind, and give such knowledge of her 
position as might help him in directing her conscience. 

She had never alluded, directly or indirecth^, to her 
acquaintance with Fernand de Loriac. Up to the time 
of her last confession there had been no reason for 
doing so ; but now she longed to kneel at the feet of 
her spiritual guide, and poui^ out into his ear the bur- 
den of her sorrow and her sin ; for Mabel did in bitter- 
ness of spirit reproach herself for the blind worship she 
had given to Fernand de Loriac. 

The day passed in despair and self-upbraiding. When 
night came she lay down to rest, but she got no sleep 
until daylight, and then she fell into a short slumber full 
of uneasy dreams. She awoke feeling very ill ; her head 
ached as if it would burst. She trembled and nearly fell 
when she tried to stand up ; her blood seemed on fire. 

She took a long time to put on her clothes, and then 
sat helpless, and in a kind of stupor. It was as if her 


MABEL stanhope: 


349 


reason were failing ; her thoughts were scattered ; she 
had difficult}’ in recollecting the events of the last few 
months. The one thing that never lost its hold on her 
mind was her terror of falling into the hands of the 
Grosjeans. She tried to forget it, — to assure herself that 
Sir John would answer her letter by calling her back to 
him. But again, had he received her letter? or might 
he not do so when it would be too late? 

“I will write to Monsieur TAbbe ! ” she thought, 
and she sat down to do so. But the pen would not 
form the words that she wanted ; the letters danced 
about upon the paper; the ink was of every color; the 
room was reeling round her. She laid down the pen in 
despair. 

“What is to become of me? ” sobbed the unhappy 
child, bursting into tears. “ I am going mad, and 
there is no one here to have pity on me ! ” 

A loud ring at the door made her start. She went 
into the antichamhre^ and called out to know who w’as 
there. 

“ Gest moi, mon enfant! ” 

Mabel opened the door with alacrity, and welcomed 
the Abbe de Rossignol. She led him into the salon^ 
and falling upon her knees beside him, sobbed out the 
story of her life since the old priest had parted from 
her. 

Gently, kindly, as a father might have done, he 
listened, and tried to soothe her ; but the Abbe per- 
ceived at once that she needed other help than his. He 
proposed going for a medical man, — a friend of his 
own ; but Mabel declared she would see no one except 
Sir Gregory Heartwell. 

“ Where does he live? ” inquired the Abbe. 

Mabel gave the address. 

The priest rose immediately. There was no time to 
lose, he thought. 

“ You must lie down and rest, even if you cannot 
sleep, mon enfant,” he said, in a tone of gentle au- 
thority. “ I must leave you for the present, but 1 
will return soon. Meanwhile, you are too ill to be 


350 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


left alone; I had better send Madame Grosjean to 
you.’’ 

Mabel uttered a cry of terror. 

“No, no ; don’t let her come near me ! ” she pleaded, 
and she told Inin what had taken place between herself 
and the concierge. She concealed nothing, — not even 
the galling fact of her pecuniaiy obligations to de Loriac, 
contracted so unconsciously. 

“ Fear nothing. I will speak to these people, and I 
promise you that 3 'ou shall have no more annoyance 
from them,” said the Abbe cheerfully. 

It was a long walk to the Rue Richepanse, and a cab 
w\as a luxury he never indulged in except when com- 
pelled bv necessit}^ ; but charity was the strongest ne- 
cessit}^ he owned, — so he hailed a fiacre and drove to 
the doctor’s. 

Sir Gregoiy received him with the urbanity of man- 
ner that never forsook him, and which no personal in- 
convenience could ever ruffle into ungraciousness. 

“Monsieur,” said the Abbe, declining a seat, “I 
come to request your attendance on a little friend of 
mine at once.” 

“ Impossible, Monsieur I’Abbe ! I start b^- the 3.30 
train for Versailles ; and unless I get a couple of hours’ 
rest beforehand, I slia’n’t be able to feel my patient’s 
pulse when I arrive. Forty-eight hours without sleep, 
and almost without food, does n’t help to clear a man’s 
brain.” 

The Abbe was disappointed and perplexed ; 3 ’et he 
could not find it in his heart to insist. 

“Has the lady been alread}^ a patient of mine?” 
inquired the doctor. 

“ Yes ; and one to whom you have been very kind, 
— Miss Stanhope.” 

“Miss Stanhope! I saw her onl}^ yesterday; it 
cannot be anything veiy serious?” 

“ I very much fear it is,” replied the priest. 

Sir Gregoiy looked at the clock. 

“ You have a cab at the door, Monsieur I’Abb^?” 

. “Yes.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


351. 


“ Then 3*011 will take me to the Eiie St. Louis.” 

He called foY his hat, followed the Abbe de Rossignol 
downstairs, and the two stepped into t\\Q fiacre. 

When the doctor’s ring summoned Mabel to rise, it 
was with difficulty she dragged herself to the door ; her 
limbs were trembling violentl}* ; she had grown much 
worse within the last hour. 

Sir Gregor3* made light of it. 

“There is nothing to be frightened at, — we’ll get 
you all right bj- and by,” he said encouragingl}’^ ; 
“ meanwhile, I must have some trustworthy person to 
take care of 3*011.” 

“ Not Madame Grosjean,” whispered Mabel, shud- 
dering. In her growing delirium, fear of Madame 
Grosjean was uppermost still. 

“No, no; not Madame Grosjean!” repeated the 
Abbe, in a confidential tone ; “ I ’ll get a sister of Bon 
Secours to nurse 3*ou.” He pressed her hand, and 
promising to return soon, followed Sir Gregoiy out of 
the room. 

“It’s a case of brain fever,” said the doctor. 

“I feared as much,” returned the Abbe. “Poor 
child ! what is to be done ? She cannot be left here 
alone.” 

“ Certainty not, — not for a moment ; she must have 
somebod3’', and that at once. Do 3*011 know anything 
of her famity. Monsieur 1’ Abbe ? I mean personalty ? ” 

“ No, — I don’t even know her father’s address ; she 
wrote to him a short time ago, but has had no answer. 
It is right 3*ou should know^ doctor,” he added, “that 
she is quite unable to defra3* the expenses of her 
illness.” 

“ There wall be none to defray,” returned Sir Gregory. 

“ As far as 3*011 are concerned, I suspected as much ; 
but she must have a garde-malade^ and man3* other 
expenses inseparable from an illness like this. Unfor- 
tunately, m3' purse is — ” 

“ Monsieur I’Abbe,” interrupted Sir Gregory, laying 
his hand on the old man’s shoulder, “ 3*011 must n’t be- 
grudge me the chance of doing a kind action ; it would 


352 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


not be Christianlike. Besides, we doctors have n’t such 
a pleasant life of it that we need deny ourselves the 
luxury of doing a little good when it comes in our 
w^ay.”‘ 

‘‘ Dieu vous le rendra ! ” said the Abbe, grasping his 
hand ; “ Dieu vous le rendra ! ” 

“Of course He will,” assented Sir Gregory, return- 
ing the pressure cordiall 3 \ 

He left the house, and hurried off to the Convent of 
Bon Secours. With some difficulty, he obtained a 
garde-malcide. 

“ Ma soeur,” he said to the nun sent to receive his 
orders, “ I shall be absent to-da}’, and 1 maj^ not return 
till to-morrow ; you must do 3 ’our best to replace me, 
by carrying out my directions.” 

He gave them minutely, and recommended his 3 'oung 
patient to the care of the sister ; then drove off to the 
railway, and arrived just in time to catch the train. - 

Sosur Ernestine found Monsieur I’Abbe sitting by 
her patient. The good old man greeted her with a feel- 
'ing of intense relief. He had felt himself an awkward 
companion for the fever-stricken girl. After repeated 
assurances that she had nothing whatever to fear in 
Soeur Ernestine’s hands, and that he would return soon, 
Mabel allowed him to go. 

The sister succeeded, after a while, in coaxing her 
into bed ; before long she ceased to recognize her nurse, 
and fancied she w^as in the Hotel-Dieu, and that Soeur 
Philomene was taking care of her. 


MABEL STANHOPE. 




CHAPTER XLII. 

A bout a week after the occurrences related in the 
last chapter, Madame St. Simon was sitting in 
her boudoir, when the maid entered with a card. 

Something very like an emotion was visible on the 
lady’s countenance as she read the name, — “ Sir John 
Stanhope.” 

“Is he alone?” she inquired in an undertone. 

“ Yes, Madame.” 

“ Say I will come directl3^” 

Madame St. Simon sat a couple of minutes fiddling 
with the card, then she took an uneasy" survey of her 
features in the large mirror over her writing-table,* 
cleared her throat, and opened the salo 7 i door. 

Nervousness was not a common sensation with the 
school-mistress; but on entering Sir John’s presence 
to-day, she felt decidedly nervous. So did the Baronet. 
He was a good deal changed since their last meeting. 
His figure was erect, his step firm as ever ; but the hair 
was nearer to white than gra^^, the lines of the mouth 
were harder and deeper, the brow had that settled con- 
traction between the e3'es that anxiet3^ of mind, or 
painful thought long dwelt upon, is apt to fix there. 

Madame St. Simon bowed. She had shaken hands 
in friendly English fashion with Sir John when they 
had parted ; but she did not feel moved to put out her 
hand now. Sir John returned her salutation with cold 
courtes3'. He had no ill-will against Madame St. Simon, 
though he could not help looking upon her as the first 
cause of Mabel’s perversion, — no, not the first ; his own 
rash imprudence was the first cause. Still, she had har- 
bored his child, and so far he was her debtor, as things 
stood. 


23 


354 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


Madame St. Simon was at a loss to know what 
had brought him to her house ; had he come to up- 
braid her for casting off Mabel in her distress, or to 
reproach her as the instrument of her perversion ? She 
was resolved to let him speak first, and then take her 
tone from his. 

“ Madame,” began Sir John, after an awkward pause, 
“ I am come to thank you for the protection you have 
afforded my daughter since her departure from my 
house.” 

For a moment Madame St. Simon was too much 
taken aback to answer. 

“There is some mistake apparently,” she replied. 
“ I saw Miss Stanhope some months ago ; she came to 
inform me of the step she had taken. I could not but 
feel justly indignant at being reputed the instrument of 
a misfortune which I deplore as much as 3'ou do ; I 
expressed my opinion — ” 

But Sir John was not in a mood to care for her 
opinion. He had heard only one sentence, — she 
had seen Mabel some months ago ; where was Mabel 
now? 

“My daughter is not here then?” he said abruptly; 
“where is she? ” 

“ I can give you no information on the subject,” 
replied Madame St. Simon; “she did not confide her 
plans to me, and I did not question her.” 

The father’s cheek grew white as ashes. 

“ My daughter wrote to me from London that she 
was coming here, and I wrote to her to this address, 
enclosing a letter to you, and expressing m3’ desire that 
she should remain under 3’our protection till such time 
as I should consider it my dut}’ to call her back to me. 
Did Mabel not tell you this ? ” 

“ No, I understood that you had cast her off com- 
pletely, that you left her to go where she pleased,” re- 
plied Madame St. Simon. 

Sir John was confounded. “ Then my letter did not 
reach her? I wrote to her here; what became of my 
letter ? ” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


855 


“ It was returned to the postman ; I did not know 
3"our daughter’s address.” 

“ Did Mabel ask 3’ou to receive her into your house? ” 
asked Sir John. 

“ She did.” 

“ And 3'ou refused her ! ” 

“ I did not choose to incur the responsibility of tak- 
ing charge of her.” , 

“ You are a woman, and 3"ou let that unprotected 
child go out into this great city without asking whither 
she went ! ” said the Baronet, his voice husk3^ 

‘ ‘ It was not ni3’ duty to look after her,” retorted 
Madame St. Simon with cruel justice; “she had a 
father and a mother who should have seen to that.” 

The arrow struck straight and deep. Yes, she was 
right ; he should have seen to that. Had he mistaken 
his duty after all? If so, the retribution had come, and 
it was terrible. 

‘ ‘ Can 3' ou give me no clew ? Can 3’'ou not help me 
to find m3" child ? ” he cried with the humilit3^ of terrified 
love. 

In spite of herself, Madame St. Simon was touched. 
“ The best place to appl}" to will be the Prefecture de 
Police,” she said, really anxious to assist him. 

The proposal did not suggest much hope to Sir 
John. 

“ Ma3" God direct me ! ” he muttered hoarsely. “ Yes, 
I suppose I had better go to the Prefecture. There was 
a Miss Jones, I used to hear her speak of ; is she in 
Paris ? Do 3'ou know her address ? ” 

“No, I know nothing of such a person. Your best 
plan, believe me, is to apply to the police.” 

“ I suppose so, I suppose so,” he repeated, in a tone 
of suppressed anguish, and was walking hastil3^ awa3". 

As the salon door opened. Sir John came face to 
face with a gentleman ; it was the Abbe de Possignol. 

The Abbe went generally twice in the year to pay 
his respects at Belle-Vue since he had left his post there. 
He had called on Madame St. Simon’s but being 
in possession from Mabel of the reception she had met 


356 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


with from her former schoolmistress, he had refrained 
from mentioning the young girl’s name. To-daj" he 
came on purpose to speak of her, — to ascertain, if pos- 
sible, her father’s address. The moment his e3’e fell , 
upon the Baronet, he seemed to recognize him. Surely, , 
he had seen that face before? Yes, on Mabel’s mantel- 
piece, not an hour ago, he had seen it, and been struck 
with the resemblance between the father and child. 

“ Pardon, Monsieur,” he said, looking steadily at Sir 
John, “ ma}^ I inquire 3’our name?” 

“ Stanhope,” replied Sir John shortl3\ 

The Abbe clasped his hands. 

“ M3^ God! I thank 3'ou ! ” he exclaimed. “You 
have a daughter, Monsieur — ” 

“What!” gasped the Baronet, seizing the priest’s 
arm, “ can 3’ou tell me of her? Where is she? Where ^ 
is she ? Take me to her ; let me see my child I ” ^ 

He was stuttering, and shook from head to foot. 

“ Be calm, and bless Providence for His mercy. 
You are not too late. I will take 3^011 to her at once.” 

He drew Sir John’s arm within his own, and led him 1 
across the hall. 

Madame St. Simon was mystified ; but it was not a 
moment to ask for explanations. She followed them to 4 
the outer door, expressing her thankfulness at the op- ; 
portune meeting, and imploring the Abbe to come and • 
see her the next da3\ 

“ Drive like the wind ! ” cried Sir John to his coach- 
man. 

The horses dashed down the Champs El3^sees, and 
before manj' minutes they were panting at Mabel’s 
door. 

On the road thither. Monsieur I’Abbe told Sir John 
all that it behooved him to know concerning Mabel. He 
dwelt on her touching piet3", her brave struggle wnth . 
poverty ; he tried to soothe the father’s agony of self- 
reproach. But one fact he could not palliate, — Mabel 
was dangerousl3", perhaps hopeless^, ill. 

When Sir John entered the room, and stood by her 
bedside j she looked at him vacantl3\ He held her hand, ' 


i 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


357 


but she drew it angrily from his cold fingers, and turned 
her head away. The Baronet groaned. Monsieur 
I’Abbe led him aside. “You had better not remain,” 
he said gently; “should consciousness return, it might 
be dangerous for her to see you suddenly.” 

He let himself be led away ; the proud man was 
humble enough now ; he sat down in the dining-room, 
leaned his arm upon the table, and burst into tears. 

The Abbe did not attempt to comfort him, but knelt 
down beside him and pra 3 ^ed in silence. 

After a few moments. Sir John fell upon his knees 
beside the Catholic priest, and the two men prayed 
together. When they rose, the Baronet had recovered 
his self-possession. 

“We must have further advice,” he said ; “ who are 
the first medical men here, father? ” 

If Mabel could have heard the reverent appellation 
from his lips ! 

“ 1 believe Sir Gregory’ Heartwell stands as high as 
any of our practitioners,” replied the Abbe, “ and he 
has given the case his best attention ; however, if 3 *ou 
wish other advice, he will, I dare say, point out the 
proper persons to consult.” 

“ I should like to see him at once,” said the Baronet ; 
“ has he been here to-da^^?” 

“Yes, he called early this morning, and will return 
at six, or else later in the evening.” 

“ I cannot wait till then ; I will go at once to his 
house ; j^ou have the address ? ” 

Monsieur 1’ Abbe wrote it down. 

“When shall I see 3 ’ou again, father?” asked Sir 
John. 

‘ ‘ I can say mj'- breviary here as well as elsewhere,” 
replied the old priest with simplicit}", ‘ ‘ so you may find 
me when you return.” 

“ God bless you ! ” said the Baronet, holding out his 
hand. 

He was not long in reaching Sir Gregory’s door. 
Fortunatelj", the doctor was at home. 

It was not his hour for receiving ; but on seeing Sir 


358 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


John’s card, he desired him to be admitted. He sus- 
pected his relationship to Mabel. Sir John at once 
introduced himself: “I am the father of Miss Stan- 
hope, 3^our patient.” 

Not knowing exactty what remark he was expected 
to make on this fact, Sir Gregory made none, — onl^" ^ 
bowed, and pointed to a chair. But his visitor was 
too agitated to sit down. 

“ Sir Gregory,” he said, speaking hurriedly, “ I have I 
just come from m}^ poor child,” — and then stopped. I 

Sir Gregory guessed at once how matters stood, and I 
came to his relief. “ And 3'Ou are anxious to have my 
opinion about her,” he said ; “ I am veiy glad to be able i 
to give you a satisfactory report of in}" patient. There is 
ever^" reason to hope that all danger is past. The crisis ) 
came last night, and there was a great improvement 
this morning.” ’ 

“ Thank God ! ” exclaimed the Baronet, in a tone of ‘ | 
deep thankfulness. “ Sir Gregoiy, there are feelings { 
that one man can never express to another ; 3^011 have \ 
done for m3" child — ” 

“What 3^011 would have done for mine,” interposed •' | 
the doctor, extending his hand. , 

“ I hope so ; I hope so. Can you come with me now ? I 
I should like 3"ou to see her again. She did not recog- 1 
nize me half an hour ago,” he added anxioush’. 

She will by and by, please God,” observed the doc- 
tor in his comforting wa3". 

They drove off together to the Batignolles. The 1 
position was painful for Sir John, awkward for both. ! 
The Baronet feared to let his emotion master him ; he ! 
would not trust himself to ask questions, though he 
knew his companion could tell him much that he longed 
to hear. When the3" alighted at the Rue St. Louis, “ Sir 
Gregoiy,” he said, “ I did not mention to 3^ou that Lady 
Stanhope is in Paris. We arrived late last night, and f 
she knows nothing of her daughter’s illness, not even of 1 | 
her presence here. If the thing be possible, I should Xj 
wish to have m3" poor child conveyed at once to the 
Hotel Meurice, where we are staying.” u 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


359 


I could not hear of it at present,” replied the doctor, 
emphatically; “but in a few days we maybe able to 
manage it. You will be wise, meanwhile, not to bring 
Lady Stanhope here ; any emotion might be dangerous 
for my patient.” 

The Baronet repressed a sigh. “I will conform to 
whatever .you advise,” he answered submissively, and 
followed Sir Gregory upstairs. 

The next day Monsieur 1’ Abbe came as usual to in- 
quire for the young invalid. While he was speaking to 
Soeur Ernestine, some one knocked for admittance ; the 
bell was tied up. The Abbe opened the door. 

“ Mademoiselle Stanhope? ” inquired a man, who had 
the air of a confidential servant. 

“ She is ill,” replied Monsieur T Abbe. “ Have jon 
any message for her ? ” 

The messenger drew a letter from his pocket, and 
without further inquiry handed it to the priest, and 
hurried downstairs again. 

The Abbe looked curiously at the seal ; it bore a 
Marquis’s coromet. The writing he recognized as simi- 
lar to that of the letter whose contents had thrown 
Mabel on her bed of suffering. She had shown it to 
him the day he came so unexpectedly upon her, and 
heard the tale of her ill-fated connection with the writer. 
The priest was painfully embarrassed. What should 
he do with this letter? A strong instinct prompted him 
to open it. It might need an answer ; he felt almost cer- 
tain it did. Mabel would shrink from letting her father 
see it, should the contents be what he had reason to 
suspect. He could not ask her, in her present state, 
what she wished done about it ; was it not his dut}^ to 
act for her? She had given him her confidence. 

He broke the seal. The envelope contained several 
bank-notes, and a sheet of note-paper, on which were 
written the words : “ Pitie et pardon ! ” 

He placed the whole in his pocket-book, and immedi-. 
ately on reaching home, put the missive with its 
enclosure in a fresh envelope, and directed it to the 
Marquis de Loriac. 


360 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


“ I did well to open it ! ” he exclaimed mentally ; “ it 
ought not lie here an hour.” 

That very day, the grand monde of Paris was astir 
with a great event, the marriage of the Marquis de Lo- 

riac with the Princess X . The bridegroom bore 

himself well, received the compliments of the fashion- 
able crowd, and smiled and lied with that perfect grace 
of manner for which he stood unrivalled among the 
most brilliant heart-breakers of his day. When the 
pageant was over, the world followed de Loriac with 
envious eyes. Was there on earth a happier man than 


MABEL STANHOPE, 


861 


CHAPTER XLin. 

T he air was balmy, the sky was blue, and the bright 
April sun shone cheerily upon the budding foli- 
age of the Tuileries gardens. 

They were a pleasant group that sat together that 
spring morning in a comfortable salon at the Hotel 
Meurice, looking out upon the gardens of the old 
palace. Mabel, still pale, was lying on a couch, drawn 
close to the window ; her mother was by her side, gaz- 
ing tenderly on her. The stately, white-haired father 
— whiter now even than when we saw him, some weeks 
ago — was seated at a little distance, reading aloud 
the news of the day. Sir John had sought by every 
delicate artifice and condescension to atone for his past 
severity. He had not entered into any explanation 
or attempted to justify his conduct towards Mabel, but 
he pleaded for pardon by the unceasing petits soins of 
penitent affection. His eyes, his voice, his caresses, 
were always telling her how he loved her and grieved 
for the suffering he had caused her. 

Mabel found it easy to forgive. She knew he had 
torn out his own heart-strings in tearing out hers ; he 
had erred from a too rigid and mistaken view of duty. 

O’Dowd had gone to high Mass at St. Roch, and heard 
a long sermon. She had not understood a word of it ; 
but she came in highly excited about it. 

“ It was a grand sermon, honey ! ” she said, sitting 
down tailor-fashion on the carpet at Mabel’s feet. “ I 
was wishing j^ou was there to hear it.” 

“ What was the text, O’Dowd?” inquired Sir John 
maliciousl3^ 

“ Sorrow one o’ me knows,” was the candid reply; 
“ but Twas a mortal fine sermon. If 3^ou’d have seen 


862 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


the people turning up the whites o’ their e 3 ^es, and cryin’ 
fit to wash the church floor ! Sure an’ I cried myself 
lookin’ at ’em.” 

Mabel burst out into peals of laughter. Emboldened 
b}’’ her example, Sir John and Lady Stanhope laughed 
too. 

“Ah, then, isn’t it a shame for you to be hum- 
buggin’ poor Dowdy like that?” reproved the nurse 
patheticall3^ 

“ My good O’Dowd, I never was less inclined to 
humbug you,” protested the Baronet, trying to be seri- 
ous ; “ but as the sermon was in French, I am puzzled 
to see what pleasure it gave you, or what good it could 
do y^ou.” 

“Isn’t the word o’ God good in any language?” 
demanded O’Dowd. 

“ Undoubtedly^’ answered Lady- Stanhope, “ when 
one understands it.” 

“ Sure my heart understood it, and what matther 
about my head?” argued O’Dowd. “ I knew he was 
doin’ his work well, he spoke so loud and made such a 
power o’ signs with his hands. He put me in mind of 
a great docther that came once to preach for us at 
Foxham.” 

“ But he preached in English, so y’ou understood him,” 
observed Mabel. 

“ Undherstood him! ” echoed O’Dowd indignantly; 
“as if the likes o’ me could undherstand him I He 
was as lamed as Solomon, and had the smartest words 
in the dictionary at his fingers’ ends. And may be he 
did n’t know how to use ’em ! — it was as good as bear- 
in’ the Pope.” 

“ Mab’s good friend, the Abbe, told you where there 
was an English sermon on Sunday, did he not?” in- 
quired Sir^John. 

“ 1 went last Sunday,” said O’Dowd sententiously. 

“Well?” 

“ Well, it was a tidy little sermon, and I hope it 
done me good. But he was n’t such a cute preacher as 
the Frenchman, — I ’ll be bound he was n’t.” 


MABEL STANHOPE. 


863 


There was no use arguing with her ; for like the vil- 
lage schoolmaster, “even when vanquished she could 
argue still ; ” so they let her have her say out. 

Then it was time for the “ child” to have her beef- 
tea, and O’Dowd went away to look after it. 

Mabel was very happy. The tie between her and 
her parents had been strengthened rather than loosened 
by separation. Sorrow had drawn them closer to one 
another. Her mother’s health, if not completely re- 
stored, was so much improved as no longer to cause 
any anxiety. 

Yes, Mabel was happy, in spite of the memory of 
that fresh-made grave, in spite of the sword that had 
gashed her heart so ruthlessly. The wound was not 
closed, — it would not be for many a day ; but the balm 
of her parents’ love had gone far already to soothe the 
pain. She had passed through a terrible furnace ; but 
she had not entered it alone, and so came out purified 
and unscathed. 

Her complete recovery was slow ; but steadih’^ and 
gradually her strength returned, and with it the brilliant 
beauty that illness had for a while sadly impaired. 

When the genial month of June came in with warmth 
for the chilly sparrows and bright colors for the flowers, 
Sir Gregor}^ Heartwell declared his authority at an end, 
and wished his patient a happy voyage home. 

Two years have passed without bringing any change 
to Stanhope Park. 

Herbert Oldacre has come home, and is a constant 
visitor there. 

The Hampshire folk say that’ Mabel is to be mistress 
of the Grange one of these da3’s ; but perhaps that is 
only gossip. 


University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 


f 




I 

K 

I 

\ 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers'* Publications. 


MADAME MOHL: 

HER SALON AND HER FRIENDS. 

A STUDY OF SOCIAL LIFE IN PARIS. 


By KATHLEEN O’MEARA. 

♦ ■ ■ - 

A very lively and charming book, the memoirs of a gra- 
cious, odd little figure, conspicuous both in Paris and London, 
and who had many friends among travelled Americans. 
With a likeness from a sketch by Wm. W. Story, and one 
from a portrait by herself, and a fac-simile letter. 

One volume. Crown 8vo. Cloth, gilt top. Price, $2.50. 
Cheap edition. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

♦ 

“The admirable papers on Madame Mohl which formed a principal attraction 
of The Atlantic Monthly a year ago, lose nothing of their effect on being brought 
together in a volume. They treat a curious subject with literary taste, ample 
knowledge, and conspicuous good sense.” —7V^. Y. Tribune. 

“ Makes one of the most fascinating, as it is also from a society point of view, 
one of the most sensible of books. Kathleen O’Meara is the liveliest of writers. 
Not a dull page survives in her book. The whole story thrills with interest from 
the moment she touches it. The Life she has written is the evolution of Madame 
Mohl as a queen of the salon. Its unique value is its bearing on this phase of 
Parisian society. Viewed from the moralizing point of view it is a capital piece 
of work in the science of polite sociology.” — N. Y. Independent. 

“ As a bright, well-written biography this book would always be a very agreea- 
ble bit of reading. But it has a charm m that it is a picture of an extinct past. 
Madame Mohl was the last of her order. The Parisian salon is a thing of bygone 
years, just as much as the stage-coach and the sailing packet. It belongs to a 
time ere the telephone and the electric light were. Men and women will continue 
to talk in social meetings, but the art of conversation as it was developed in the 
salon is a lost art. . . . She had gathered around her the brightest and cleverest 
of friends, whom she measured neither by wealth, or station, or renown, but by 
their power of interesting her and her guests. In some respects it must have 
been the quintessence of Parisian social development, purified of all the evil of 
its earlier days, free from all ambition of vulgar display, refined to the highest 
pitch of intellectuality, interfused with wit such as no other soil could produce. 
The last of the salons was the most perfect. We consider this outline sketch (for 
it is only that) as an admirably drawn picture. The authoress has done her work 
capitally, and the appreciating reader has a rich treat offered.” — The Churchman. 


^ ' Sold by all booksellers. Mailed., post-paid, on receipt of 
price, by the Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


MESSXS. ROBERTS BROTHERS' PUBLICATIONS. 


NO NAME (THIRD) SERIES. 

Diane Coryval. 


“A book published in the ‘ No Name ’ Series, and called ‘ Diane Coryval,’ 
combines so many of the essentials that go to make up a perfect story, one 
hardly knows where to begin to praise, and there is almost nothing to blame. 
The writing is full of tender grace and gentle humor, and abounds in pictures 
that glow as if on canvas. The story is a song in praise of loving and 
unselfish life.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“In the long line of ‘No Name’ novels, it is doubtful if another can be 
found so pervaded by the clear, sweet atmosphere that penetrates and fills 
‘ Diane Coryval.’ ” — Mary Clemmer., in “ The CapitaC 

“ There is nothing but praise for this little story, which could not well be 
more delicate i^ its workmanship, or more charming in its conception.” — 
Albany Evening yournal. 

“ This is a French story, clean, sweet, and charmingly picturesque. Its first 
scenes, in Paris, depict a phase of life among artists in that home of art ; but 
the action is soon transferred to Leval, a quaint old town, with its still quainter 
people, on the seashore in Picardy. The story is told in a pure, natural, beau- 
tiful style, with fine but not fantastic or overwrought descriptions of scenery, 
and with no subtle analysis of character or motives. All its personnel live and 
move before us as real human beings, with nothing impossible or even im- 
probable in their careers or conduct. It is a very interesting, indeed fasci- 
nating, tale of a true love that, as ever, did not run smooth, — ‘ Oh, the pathos 
of it ! ’ — told in a chaste, elevated tone throughout. One is loath to lay down 
the little book and close his acquaintance with these naive and noble-hearted 
peasants of Pier dy.” — ■ Christian Register. 

“ It is a .-I. .rming story, opening with a glimpse of artist life in Paris. The 
heroine is a beautiful girl full of devotion and love for an invalid mother, from 
whose death the daughter turns to a new life that follows in broad and un- 
known channels, where the young girl is guided by a rare woman of quaint 
habits, but picturesque in all the homely detail of her life. The character- 
drawing is distinct and graceful, the heroine full of goodness through the 
chapters that contain the darkest years of her life. The quiet beauty of the 
closing chapters, the strength of character that is felt through it all, are refresh- 
ing, while the story ends in a delightful fashion.” — Boston Post. 

* 

* * * Our publications are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent post- 
paid on receipt of advertised price. 5 ^ 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 





^9 


>w 

V 


''V 




A.— ^ 

iv^l# .*^ f 


W' /♦,• ■ *' '■* >■■ 

'_'!• C/ifc ' . ' •■' ' 


■-,v f''ife^ .T 




• ♦ > 















v'" . ' • » . '-^c. 

'<r ^ /. 

V <p, " ^ 




' O , . •*' . \ 

-yV."-. *J“ 


xO°<. 



. <i} -> , 



'W. w 

O '/ 

o S r,- '/^ ^ ■> « '' ■N.'^ \ ' 8 t 

C “ ^ O. .0‘ V “ ^ ^ 

' ^ L- X yy?7^ 'P 

.. x" ^ 

. o 0^ . wMk ^ " >• 






A^ < 

. r 

: ^0 o^. >. 

^ A r. 

'^. s. 0 ^ -C; 



o 


' ^ ^ ^ 0*^'"' <■ ' ' « ^ "^<3^ . 0 ^ X \ 0 ^; 0- ^ ^ 

■'^ ^ r o'^ * i^ 

■ . . . , -e^. '>' 0 s 0 > <0 a i, ^ . \<^ , . , , '*' 

S f ,, ^ ^r)‘ ^ O y 'c. ' > . ^ 


oo' 



\' 





Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: /\ • • 

DEC 



1996 

iBBRREEPER 




PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. INC. 
K]/ 111 Thomson Park Drive 

V<-0 Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
• / (412)779-2111 


a I \ 



VJ 


o, N^’^’ 

vV- ^ 


1> 

* jv^fag c\^' -■ ^ 

uj '■ 

^ «^vi\ ' \ ^” 

A^ y -fj <> , ^ 

. "^.NO' ^ 0 - 

^ \ 0 ^ ^ - . - 

c 0 ^ '• -P , V 1 8 . <6 c 0 

■> c-5^^ ^ 'P vl"^ 

“ : '^o r -• ^ ? 



r^ y >^s<' if 

'»' 0 ^ O^ 

> ' o 



^7’ Av ^ ^ 

^ ^ . 5 ? ^ 



o 

/j N 0 .*■ 

o^ ^i- ' * " 

A^' 

CL’^ ^ 



v"" X'^- 

s'. , 

s ^ ^ 




